


Argumentum a fortiori

by PeturbingPrism



Category: Good Omens (TV), Good Omens - Neil Gaiman & Terry Pratchett
Genre: Alternate Universe - Human, Alternate Universe - Lawyers, Alternate Universe - Modern Setting, Anathema is BAMF (Good Omens), Angst with a Happy Ending, Aziraphale is "just enough of a bastard to be worth knowing" (Good Omens), Aziraphale is Bad at Feelings (Good Omens), Barrister! Crowley, Canon Queer Character, Chubby Aziraphale (Good Omens), Crowley and Anathema Device are Friends (Good Omens), Crowley is Bad at Feelings (Good Omens), Crowley is a Mess (Good Omens), Eating Disorder Not Otherwise Specified, Emotional Hurt/Comfort, Fluff and Hurt/Comfort, Gabriel is a dick, Gen, Hurt Aziraphale (Good Omens), Hurt Crowley (Good Omens), Idiots in Love, M/M, Multi, Mutual Pining, Protective Crowley, Queer Themes, Worried Aziraphale (Good Omens), crowley is a smartass (Good Omens)
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2019-09-23
Updated: 2020-05-31
Packaged: 2020-10-27 01:55:40
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 26
Words: 101,886
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/20752415
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/PeturbingPrism/pseuds/PeturbingPrism
Summary: "From the stronger argument", the Good Omens Alternate Universe barristers fic you never knew you wanted!Crowley could be a rising star at Brimstone Chambers, if he could control his temper and apply himself. Aziraphale is on the edge of losing not only his job, but his entire family over a disagreement over which organisations he has granted funds to through his beloved Miracle Foundation, the philanthropic arm of his his family's angel investment firm. Anathema tries to help her old friend out by introducing him to the only lawyer she knows who might be crazy enough to take on the might of Celeste & Sons.Two people with different ways of dealing with their issues strike up an unlikely friendship, leading to love and healing.  Lots of bickering, bookshop silliness, boozing, bentley rides, shared desserts and blushing.





	1. "A little legal trouble"

Crowley was late.

This, in itself, was hardly unusual, but what was perhaps more unusual was that he was driving his vintage 1936 Bentley down one of small winding alleys that central London is full of, at 40 miles per hour.

"I'm never drinking again," he lied, as pedestrians jumped out of the way of his car.

He pulled up tight to the railings of the Old Bailey and brought the car to a screeching halt. He breathed deeply, both hands on the wheel, before letting his gaze drift to the wig and bundle sitting in the passenger seat. 

He adjusted his sunglasses, and unceremoniously slammed the wig over his greasy, shoulder-length red hair. He then proceeded to inelegantly shimmy himself over the passenger seat, his long, thin limbs barely co-operating. Once he had piled himself out of the car, he grabbed the bundle in both arms, slamming the door shut with his snaking hips before striding towards the entrance. 

He pushed his way past the queue to the security area, and railroaded his way past the court staff, setting off the archway detector. With the alarm going off, he broke into a sprint, his snakeskin winklepickers clacking against the ancient cobbles as he strode towards court 18.

He threw open the court door, and strode up to the Judge's Bench.

"Ah, Mr Crowley, you finally decided to join us," sighed Judge Mammon, with a withering glare.

Crowley put his bundle down on the table next to him, and with a grimace lowered his sunglasses, revealing his strange yellow eyes. He fixed the judge with a stare and replied, "Indeed so, your honourable..."

*

"Tosspot. You called a judge in the court of appeal a tosspot!" Anathema had her head in her hands and was trying not to scream.

Crowley was sitting sideways in the uncomfortable office chair opposite her desk, his legs hanging over the arm of the chair. He was still in full robes, although his glasses were now back on, and the accursed wig was jammed into the sleeve of his robes.

His long, thin fingers were busy playing with a biro he'd grabbed from her desk. "He was being a tosspot," he said matter-of-factly, eyes never leaving the biro.

"I don't care if the Judge was screwing your mother on top of the Magna Carta, you just... don't...you just don’t..."

"Oh please, it was just an emergency injunction," he sneered. He leaned back, and looking up at the ceiling as if pleading to a higher power, said "Oh your Lordship, please grant this injunction to get rid of the Travellers on my client's land."

"Crowley, you might think you're above this, but may I remind you that those clients pay very well for you to turn up and be their glove puppet." Anathema hissed, before pinching the bridge of her nose. After letting her words sink in slightly, she said, shakily, " I managed to clear things up with the clients, and I know that judge won't bother reporting. I mean, he really should," Anathema shot him a meaningful glance, "but it's a miracle from Satan himself that you still got it through."

"I'm good at what I do," Crowley smiled, throwing the pen in the air.

"If you put even ten per cent of the effort you put into being an asshole into your work, you'd be a QC by now," Anathema sighed.

"Arsehole, please, you've been away from the colonies long enough to say it correctly." The pen landed on his right temple, dislodging his sunglasses. "Ow!"

"Asshole," she repeated, "Motherfucking bullshitting ass-hole."

Crowley put the biro in his top pocket, and twisted like a snake into another improbable position. "Look, if this lecture is over, I have an opinion to finish by..."

"You're going nowhere, buster," she spat. "Do you even realise how badly this could have gone?"

"Buster? Who says buster?"

"That little performance of yours risked the injunction being rejected. You risked the judge reporting you. Fuck, you risked the reputation of Brimstone Chambers."

He ignored her, twirling the biro between his fingers.

"You risked me having to tell Luci." She said.

Crowley suddenly stopped still, biro falling out of his hand. 

"Yeah, that got your attention, jerkoff," she sneered. "We both know that he's sick of your shit."

"But I'm very good at my job," Crowley snapped back quickly.

"It doesn't matter. You could be the best lawyer in the world and it wouldn’t matter if we can't get clients because you're acting like a damn teenager in court," Anathema explained. 

They both sat there as Anathema’s words filled the room.

The silence was stifling. 

Anathema broke first, and shuffled some papers on her desk. Then, very quietly she said, “I know you’re a great barrister. Hastur and Beelzebub think they’re great, but the moment you step in a courtroom, or you sit with a client, you shine. You shine and they look like a couple of idiots next to you. They know that, you know that, frankly the clients know that. You should be taking their clients from them, but instead you keep acting like a juvenile delinquent and taking on this baby barrister work.”

The silence filled the room like carbon monoxide.

Crowley’s face moved into several different expressions, until it settled on resignation. “You know what I think of their clients,” he muttered sullenly.

“I do,” she replied. She took her glasses off and polished them with a cloth. "But I have a proposition for you," Anathema said quietly. 

"You're not my type," Crowley replied, but more out of habit than conviction.

"Good, we've got something in common." She sighed.

They were both silent for another few moments. Anathema had expected Crowley to try attacking again, but it seemed as if her words were slowly sinking into his thick skull. 

"I have a very good friend who is having a little legal trouble at the moment..."

Crowley sat up. "Anathema, you know as well as I do that there is no such thing as 'a little legal trouble'." He rolled his eyes at her, suddenly back to his old self. "You wouldn't be talking to me if it was 'a little legal trouble'."

"My friend is being offered a settlement to leave his job, and I want you to look at it."

"Wouldn't a solicitor be better for this?" he asked.

"Well, the thing is, Crowley," Anathema's face was pulled into a rictus as she said, "That I don't know any solicitors who are on their last fucking chance at my chambers and owe me a fucking favour for fucking covering for them."

Crowley was not an easy man to intimidate. He wouldn't have lasted five minutes at the Bar if he were. But looking into Anathema's eyes, and noticing how white her knuckles were getting, he decided that discretion was the better part of valour. He desperately needed a black coffee before the adrenaline pumping through his veins wore off. 

"Okay, I'll help." He sighed, defeated.

"Good." She smiled. "Meet at the statue of Eros at eight?"

"Wait, you didn't say that it was outside business hours!" Crowley was suddenly animated again. "You didn't say anything about meeting them!"

"Well, my friend has this crazy idea that they should at least buy you dinner if they can't pay you by the hour." Anathema rolled her eyes. " I did tell him not to bother."

"Thanks Anathema, I think you're great too."

"Look, if you're going to be such an idiot about this, should I tell him you're too busy?" she asked, pushing her glasses back up her nose.

"...will there be booze?" Crowley asked.

"Yes." She smiled.

"Well, we have a deal then!" Crowley slithered upright and held his hand out to shake.

Anathema reached into her desk, and promptly threw a towel at him.

Crowley sat there for a full five seconds as the wheels turned in his head.

"You keep a supply of towels in your desk?" he asked, pulling it from his face.

"I've known you cockwombles long enough to know when you haven't showered."

Crowley stared at her for a second. _"You can't say that,"_ he said in mock offence. "You've appropriated my culture."

"Crowley...I hate you."

"No you don't," he grinned, like a naughty schoolboy. 

"Go shower and do some work for once." Anathema turned back to her computer screen.

Crowley got up and walked to the door.

"Crowley."

He turned around. "What?"

"Try and eat some food today, before dinner, I mean."

Crowley's face split into a demonic grin. "I told you that you liked me."

*

Crowley needed to clear his head. He'd spent three hours in chambers, trying to write an opinion on a particularly boring property matter. When required to explain anything to clients he often compared the English legal system to a teetering tower, built by a madman over millennia; _imagine_, he would say,_ a castle, but when the castle gets damaged, someone decided to replace that bit with a Tudor Palace. And then imagine that gets damaged, but instead of fixing it someone just dumps a bloody great Georgian townhouse on top, and then some idiot decides that it needs a huge bloody Victorian conservatory..._

If this is true for English law as a whole, it's doubly true for anything to do with property. His head was pounding, and he couldn't imagine anything worse than being stuck in chambers, forcing himself to read another Victorian case about easements. 

Since moving back to London just short of fifteen years ago, he found himself absent-mindedly walking towards St James Park whenever he found himself needing to calm his mind. If Crowley were more spiritually minded, he might think that he felt some sort of connection to the place. If he were more metaphysically minded he may have thought that maybe a different version of himself had imprinted on the place, and he was stuck coming back to seek answers he wouldn't get as the man he was in this here and now, but Crowley avoided thinking like that, if he could help it. That type of thinking generally led to drinking after 3am, and before 8am. 

He was glad to have dumped the suit after this morning's tussle with Anathema. He'd noticed that all his briefs for the next couple of weeks were just writing opinions, avoiding any interactions with clients without someone more senior than himself mediating, and definitely no time in court. His suit and gown could sit in the draw of his desk for another few days yet.

He'd changed into an outfit he had calculated to be perfect for upsetting the average client: skinny black jeans which showed everyone his religion, an overwashed and overtight Queen t-shirt, and an incredibly expensive jacket he'd carefully dragged through a bush backwards on a very drunken night out. He accessorised this with his perennial sunglasses and snakeskin boots, and a slim silver scarf he thinks he picked up from a conquest in the early noughties. He felt sexy. Aggressively so. He also knew for a fact that he could comfortably jump a fence in this outfit. Y'know, if he needed to. 

He kicked a stone along the path around the pond, refusing to think.

And that's when he saw him.

Crowley was not much of one for sentiment. He didn't believe in things such as soulmates, or Mr or Mrs Right, or anything other than some people being marginally less annoying than others, but he couldn't help but get a sense of...peace from the man reading on the bench.

Crowley, a man who could not stand still or not be planning, scheming or otherwise in the process of doing, found himself brought to a perfect standstill.

The man was anachronism made flesh. He has perfect blond curls, clearly kept in place with not much more than a little pomade. His perfect posture as he sat on the bench suggested a man who was somewhat fussy, but his light-coloured suit, with tailoring which had been fashionable over half a century ago, and a tartan bow tie, confirmed it. His figure had a certain softness to it, his face and limbs ever so slightly rounded, but his suit appeared to have been cut for a larger man.

The man carefully turned the page of his battered paperback, a pinky finger with a ring on it obscuring the name of the book. 

Crowley tried to look subtly at the title but found himself peering more and more conspicuously.

After what felt like an age, the blond man on the bench lowered his book slightly and said, "Excuse me, can I help you?"

"Sorry, " Crowley mumbled, feeling very sheepish, "is...is that an Arthur Machen?"

The man smiled, his blue eyes twinkling in a way that made Crowley's stomach flip. "Yes it is! Are you a Lovecraft fan?" he asked.

"Oh no... a Machen fan." Crowley replied stupidly, still craning his neck to see the title.

The man with the tartan bow tie shut the book and placed it carefully on his lap. 

"I find it hard to believe that you came to Machen immediately. He’s rather forgotten these days." The blond man seemed a little sad about this. "I found out about him through Beardsley; I was reading a book about him and saw a picture of the illustrations he'd done for The Great God Pan...thought they were beautiful. A few years later, at Uni, I found a copy at an antique market and took it home, and have loved Machen ever since."

Crowley watched the blond man talking, his eyes lighting up as he spoke. Crowley was not a sentimental man; such a thing would be fatal for a barrister, who needed to analyse and attack with speed and precision. But he found himself watching the strange man's excited softness, the slight wiggle as he let words tumble from his mouth.

The man seemed to notice. "Oh, I'm sorry, I have a bad habit of talking too much..."

"No, no, it's not that," Crowley found himself slumping down next to the man, taking up the rest of the space on the bench. 

They sat there, watching the ducks for a moment. Crowley, sunglasses still on, focused on the one black swan and said quietly "I found him through Alan Moore. Read From Hell out of the library as a teenager, and ended up finally getting around to A Disease of Language last year. Great story. I've not got around to reading Machen’s stuff yet, but it's on my mind. You could even say that I'm interested."

Crowley turned to him, grinning. Crowley hoped that he looked somewhat saucy, enough of a grin to say _if you want it, I will give it to you_.

Instead he said, "Read any comics?" Crowley cursed himself immediately.

"Not many," replied the blond man.

They sat there quietly, contemplating the ducks, before the blond man pulled out a watch on a chain. "Ah, I'm meeting a friend soon, but I've enjoyed this conversation."

Crowley pulled his iPhone out of his jacket pocket, and checked the time. 19:55. He'd definitely be late at this rate. Normally he wouldn't mind, but the blond man who had fallen out of time seemed worried. "I'm meant to be meeting people as well, " he said far more casually than he felt. "Are you heading towards Soho? I would be happy to keep you company."

The blond man smiled like the clouds parting after a storm. "Oh, I'd very much like that."

And so they sauntered through the park, chatting away. The man asked what he did, but Crowley was far more interested in finding out his opinion on M R James. Walking up the steps of The Mall, Crowley discovered the following things about the man: the man loved M R James, which Crowley was not surprised by; he had read them one summer holiday, and had 'played' at finding his own whistle or Saxon crown, despite the fact the stories themselves were a warning not to go looking for antiquarian objects. He also found out that the man had not seen Night of the Demon, despite being a James fan, because his family were very religious and "it wasn't worth the bother."

Crowley had laughed and joked about how he'd watched Hellraiser when he was eleven, and how he hadn't been able to sleep for a week. As they approached the statue of Eros on the corner onto Piccadilly Circus, they both stopped.

Crowley had the desire to grab the man by the hand and beg him to cry off his awful friends and go for a drink with him, but he didn't.

The man looked up at him, eyes wide, as if he were about to lean in for a kiss, but instead he took the book out of his pocket and slid a business card in between the pages. He held out the book and said, "I know that we've only just met, but would you like my book?" Words tumbled from the blond's mouth, as if he was explaining himself. "They're a selection of Machen's short stories, so easy enough to read on the way to and from work. I've read it a dozen times and I have an edition in much better condition at home. I picked it up in a charity shop today as I didn't have my book and wanted something familiar..."

"Alright, alright!" Crowley said, to make him be quiet, "I'll take it."

"Oh, that's wonderful!" The man said, with a smile, "Thank you."

"No, no, thank you," Crowley replied, on autopilot, "Always in need of a good book, me." He slid it into his inside pocket and smiled.

"Well, it was lovely to meet you" the blond man smiled, putting his hand out to shake.

"It was lovely to meet you as well," Crowley smiled in a way he hoped was warm. "What's your name?"

"ANGEL" shouted a familiar, American accent. 

Crowley's stomach dropped. He turned around to see Anathema storming towards them, throwing him a look that would petrify stone.

"Anathema, dear!" replied the blond man, opening his arms as he turned to her. "Utterly delightful to see you again!"

They hugged and air-kissed each other theatrically. Anathema, stepping back and fixing Crowley with a stare that could only be described as pointed, said "I see you've met Crowley."

"Oh..." The angel took a double take and then smiled widely. "Is this the famous Crowley?"

"Yes, unfortunately," Anathema deadpanned. 

The angel laughed, and said "From what you've said I was expecting a snake in human form! He's been positively delightful!

"You hear that?" grinned Crowley, making sure she could see his yellow eyes behind his glasses, "I'm _positively delightful_."

"Yeah, well snakes are kinda adorable until they bite you," she spat back. 

"Anathema, are you saying that I'm adorable?" Crowley shot back, his grin widening.

The angel laughed at Anathema's annoyance. She stared at him a moment, before settling on "I'm saying that you're a very good barrister." She said _barrister _like another person would say _demon_. 

"Oh, let's not talk business just yet," blustered the angel, "I'm famished, and this place has some of the best pasta I've eaten outside of Italy."

.

"Well, lead on, Angel," Crowley smiled. 

Dinner certainly seemed more interesting now.


	2. Dinner

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Thank you for your kind reviews! With the last chapter I posted it when utterly exhausted, and without having been properly edited, for which I apologise. I have now thrown it past my editor husband, so it will hopefully be less riddled with mistakes. He has also demanded that I let him check them before publishing them in the future. He is known as The Bear to his friends, so here I will call him the Editor bear? Edit-bear? EditBear.
> 
> Content Warning:
> 
> Implied child abuse, smoking and very graphic descriptions of cake eating.

Crowley, for all his posturing as a morally ambiguous, brain-for-hire legal professional, did have certain beliefs he held dear to himself. One of those things was that kids needed to be treated gently by the law.

Another of those beliefs is that no dinner in the world was worth having to learn an entire new language for.

Oh, sure, there was a translation underneath the Italian, but it hardly elucidated what he was meant to be ordering. 

"What are you thinking?" asked Aziraphale (Anathema had clarified his name by now).

Crowley’s eyebrows were knitted together in thought. Then, after a few moments of deliberation, he said "What's Orecchiette?"

"Small ears," Aziraphale replied. "They sound utterly divine."

"Oh," Crowley replied dumbly.

"It's pasta," Anathema explained. 

Crowley looked back at the menu, as if studying a particularly vexing statement. Then, as if he were getting ready to cross examine a witness, asked “What’s Agnolotti?”

"It comes from the Italian ‘to pinch’,” Aziraphale replied, not missing a beat. "They’re rather meaty and satisfying."

Crowley was silent for a moment, before re-adjusting his sunglasses and again replying “Oh.”

"It's pasta," Anathema explained. Crowley could hear the italics in her voice. 

"Oh, okay." Crowley looked back at the menu, and then tentatively asked, "What's Pappardelle?"

"Oh, it's broad, thick and fun to suck," replied Aziraphale with an impossibly straight face. 

Crowley was glad that the low light of the restaurant hid how red he had gone.

"It's…pasta," Anathema smirked. 

Crowley hid behind the menu for a moment, cursing that witch of a chambers manager. Then, carefully, he put the menu down and reached towards Aziraphale. "As you can see, food isn't really my area of expertise."

Aziraphale looked him up and down. "That, my dear, is apparent."

Crowley grinned and said, "Well, you're paying for dinner, how about you order for me, and I'll do what I'm good at."

Aziraphale suddenly looked a little concerned. "Oh, yes, that."

"C'mon Angel," Anathema said encouragingly, "You already said that you'd take it. I just want to make sure you're not getting ripped off."

"Anathema, it's family! They wouldn't rip me off!" he protested. "Besides, your friend has much better things to do than have dinner ruined with work."

Crowley had been a barrister long enough to know when someone was hiding something. This suddenly made it much more interesting. Crowley sipped his wine and with a shrug said "Mate, I'd be working anyway…”

"No, no, it's fine,” Aziraphale put his hands up, as if to emphasise how not fine it was, “I just need to…I just…I’ll just sign it and we can have a lovely meal..."

Crowley leaned forward for a moment, and with all the sincerity in his lanky body said, "If you thought it was fine, you wouldn't have shown it to Anathema." Aziraphale looked like a lamb in headlights. Crowley leaned back in his chair and lowered his glasses dramatically. "Pass me the contract. If it's fair, you'll sign it tonight, we won't ever have to see each other again."

Aziraphale looked as if someone had played a horrible trick on him. Staring at the table he pulled a wad of neatly folded papers from his inside pocket and placed it on the table just in front of Crowley's hands. "Here."

Crowley's hand snatched the papers and pulled them next to his setting at the table. 

Then, he took off the sunglasses, slid them into his top pocket, and grabbed his wineglass, downing the content in one gulp. "Now, weren't you getting us dinner?"

It worked. Aziraphale perked up, grabbing the bottle on the table, and emptied the contents into Crowley's glass.

"Any preferences, Crowley." There it was again, the little excited wiggle and a grin that could mean anything. 

Crowley let it hang just a little too long, and retorted, "Surprise me."

Anathema looked thoroughly confused by the both of them and grabbing her wineglass downed it in one as well. "I'm too sober for this."

"Well, dearheart,” Aziraphale wielded the wine bottle like a cudgel, “There is a cure for that."

*

Crowley was only vaguely aware of the conversation going on beside him, as he read the document. It was surprisingly short for what appeared to be a CEO's golden parachute. Usually they were pages and pages of stock options, how any bonus would be calculated, pensions, taxable and non-taxable benefits...here was barely anything. 

Lump sum of £150,000, details of how to access the pension for re-investment, and a vague promise of re-employment in exchange for not working in the charity sector in a leadership role for at least five years. While £150 000 wasn't to be sniffed at, the tone of anger in the contract didn't make sense. It seemed less like a golden parachute and more like bronze shackles to keep something or someone down. 

Crowley tried not to think of Aziraphale in bronze shackles. He tried not to think of Aziraphale being forced down... he managed to shove the thought into the back of his mind, to be saved for a particularly boring conference call. 

He looked up as the first course arrived. "There's something fishy here." He said, as the plates were placed. 

"I ordered you the sardines," said Aziraphale.

Crowley looked down at his plate and saw the three fried fish, mouths open in terror, staring back at him from their eyeless sockets. He wondered for a moment if he could just eat the contract instead. 

"I meant with this." He brandished the papers in his hand. "Something isn't quite adding up."

"Well, food is here so let's just tuck in!" He laughed nervously. "Buon appetito!"

"No, not just yet." Crowley felt himself getting ready to lunge at the infuriating man. "I can't help you if you don't tell me what's going on. This," he brandished the papers again, "didn't come out of nowhere. This isn't a normal contract. Something happened here."

Aziraphale popped a slice of the calf kidneys delicately in his mouth, and swallowed. "Yes...I...suppose so."

"You said something about family," Crowley pressed. " So, is this a family business?"

"Sort of...I was the head of The Miracle Foundation, which is the philanthropic arm of Celeste & Sons. I say head...” Aziraphale laughed a low, nervous laugh, “I was more of a dogsbody really...making tea, organising meetings, making sure everything ran smoothly..."

"Aziraphale, don't do yourself down," soothed Anathema, "you worked so hard getting it set up, getting the right people, running fundraising event after fundraising event..."

"Oh pish," he replied, staring at his plate "anyone could do what I did. I've never been good at making money, but once my brothers decided they wanted to give back, they put me in charge..."

"So what happened?" asked Crowley, taking another swig of wine.

"I...I..." Aziraphale refused to look up before sighing and saying "I...made some bad choices."

"What, did you spend the money on drugs and rentboys?" snorted Crowley.

Aziraphale looked up, his eyes as wide as saucers.

"Crowley!" Exclaimed Anathema.

"What? If I'm going to be his Counsel, I need to know!" Crowley exclaimed back.

"I very much did not!" replied Aziraphale, "Although if you ask my brothers, I might as well have."

"So, did you spend it on loose cars and fast women?" said Crowley, taking another sip, refusing to let Aziraphale look away.

"I...I...did not!" Aziraphale huffed, insulted by the very thought.

"You're going to have to give me more to work with, Angel."

"I gave it away" Aziraphale muttered, fork shaking in his hand as he put it down.

"What did you do?" Crowley asked 

"I gave it away." Aziraphale exclaimed, his whole body shaking. He rested his head in his hands, elbows on the table, staring down at his dish.

"Gave what away?"

Aziraphale swallowed hard and said, "I gave a grant to a charity for young LBGT rough sleepers."

"Oh." Crowley let it hang for a moment, "Wait, isn't that what you're meant to do? Give money to good causes, help out vulnerable kids and all that?"

"I...I lied a bit on the paperwork I gave to the trustees." Aziraphale explained, looking like he might throw up, " I... omitted to fully explain...that it was for... for....for queer people."

"So you lied to the trustees of the foundation..." said Crowley, his yellow eyes suddenly flashing with intrigue.

"Those poor young people...the shelter was on the edge of being closed, I couldn't not help them..." Aziraphale looked like he had looked into the depths of hell, "It's so cold out there alone, when you're thrown out. I couldn't let the sun go down on them...if...if...if my brothers had known...if they'd known...they'd have denied it. But, but now they're dissolving the foundation...to make sure I can't do anything...like... like that again..."

Aziraphale shook, taking quick, shallow breaths. 

"But the trustees knew it was for disadvantaged young people, right?"

"Yes."

Crowley sat there and thought for moment, taking another sip of wine. "Do you think there was anything else?" He said softly.

"Just...just one other thing." Aziraphale sighed. "Before the shortlist of applications go through to the trustees, part of my job was...was to vet the ones that definitely wouldn't get awards. Give them pointers for future applications, let them know if there was a fund or foundation which would be better suited for them...my brothers...they found out that I'd been vetting one of the applicants so they never saw them...a fee paying school...I kept taking them out because I couldn't...I couldn't...I just couldn't..." He couldn't finish that sentence.

Crowley reached out and cupped his slim, bony hands around Aziraphale's warm, perfectly manicured ones. "I'm sorry this is painful for you. Lawyers, all of us, we're bastards. We have to be. We have to defend the guilty, as well as the innocent." Crowley smiled at him, crookedly, hoping it would put the angel at ease. "And a hell of a lot more people in the middle."

More silence. Aziraphale didn't move. Crowley tried to fill the silence. "from what you're saying, I think you did the right thing."

"Thank...thank you Crowley." Aziraphale smiled. 

"Look, let's forget about this for now" said Crowley, folding it up and putting it in his jacket pocket.

"I...I just want it to be over," Aziraphale said, emotionlessly.

"Give me a week to think it over," replied Crowley. "I'll need to research the case law in this area, but I think we can at least make a counter offer. Get you something better." He found himself gently rubbing his hand, around the signet ring on Aziraphale's little finger. 

Aziraphale nodded his head slightly, looking a little relieved.

"Anathema, you shouldn't give me cases like this," Crowley grinned, "you know what I'm like with a case that interests me."

"Oh god, is this going to be a repeat of the Hero to Zero case?" Anathema rolled her eyes, "Hastur just kept telling you the answer, and you kept saying it couldn't be that simple for a week."

"I was right," he grinned, letting go of Aziraphale's hands, and leaning back in his chair with a surprisingly economical movement.

"I don't care. You were a wreck when you finally came out of the library, waiving your advice around like a flag." 

"I was right. And we got paid very well for that one. Thirty percent in your pocket, and all you did was nag nag nag at me to stop." He punctuated the word nag with his hand, moving it like it were a puppet. 

"I don't like dead barristers in the library," Anathema snapped back, "they make the place untidy."

"It sounds like a hard life at the Bar," said Aziraphale.

"Eh, it can be. That said, Commercial Bar all the way for me, these days. You couldn't get me back at the Criminal Bar even if the apocalypse was coming. Plus, you don't get dinners like this at the Criminal Bar." Crowley stuck his fork into one of the sardines, and then proceeded to try and put the whole thing in his mouth. He realised this was a bad idea when he found he couldn't fit it all in, the tail hanging out and touching his chin. 

Anathema and Aziraphale looked aghast. There was nothing left to do. He threw his head back dramatically, and decided to try and swallow it. He bit off the tail, and swallowed the rest of the fish bones and all, shuddering. "Well, I'm never doing that again."

"Crowley, are you actually feral?" gasped Anathema, "What on earth..."

"Anyone want the rest of this? I don't think I can eat any more." Crowley pushed the plate away from himself, with a quiet burp.

*

Two hours and five bottles of wine later, Crowley had learned some new things. 

Firstly, Aziraphale could pack away food like no-one’s business. He'd taken a lot of delight in ordering dinner, and whilst Crowley found the portions too big and the flavours too strange for his liking, Aziraphale had finished his portions, on top of his own dinner and bites of Anathema's. 

Crowley found himself rather enjoying Aziraphale eating. The simple, pure joy in his face when he tried something and explained it was overwhelming. He had a...fondness for many body types, and whilst Crowley was the last person to be sanctimonious about having a physical preference, he did find that being very slim himself meant that he enjoyed the other person to be softer than he was. The delight of being at right angles to another person's softer form.

The second thing he found out was that Aziraphale was currently living in Soho, looking after an antiquarian bookshop for a family friend. "Inhabiting Madam Tracey's shop" was his exact phrasing. To be honest, it sounded perfect for Aziraphale; the shop was appointment only during the week, and open on weekends selling dead stock and cheap paperbacks to tourists and people as into reading as him. Other duties were doing any jobs she remembered in their weekly emails, and re-categorising the books to add them to a spreadsheet of the madam's own arcane devising. He could see Anathema practically leaping to re-do the entire system.

The third thing was that when drinking with Aziraphale, he was able to reach new levels of incoherence. 

"My point is...my point is..." Crowley spilled his wine slightly, and pointed the glass at Aziraphale, "my point is...dolphins!" Crowley found himself having to refocus, as he stared at the angel finishing his pasta, "that's my point. Big brains, dolphins, damn big brains. That's not to mention the whales." Crowley made a face like a builder giving an estimate for works, "Brain city, whales."

"Kraken," replied Aziraphale, "great big bugger..."

"Did you know?" interjected Anathema, "Did is know...didja knuuu...that celpha...sell-o-fa...squid have brains in their arms?"

"Brains...in their arms?" Crowley hiccupped. "You lie, witch!"

"No, no, no, they have brains EVERYWHERE!" Anathema giggled, "So many brains!"

"And eyes...the eyes have it!" Aziraphale giggled at his poor joke.

"The eyes have it?" Asked Crowley.

"That's because," Aziraphale hiccupped, and then finished, "They have eyes and they aren't like human eyes. Except they are."

"Eeeeeeeeeyyyyyueeeeees," Anathema giggled.

"The blind watchmaker!" announced Aziraphale, grinningly stupidly. "He made eyes twice! It'sa... it'sa Miracle!"

"Talking of miracles, Crowley, give me a cigarette!" Anathema demanded.

"Oh Anathema dear, I thought you'd stopped." Aziraphale looked like a puppy that had just been kicked.

"I'm druuuunnnnkkkk," Anathema slurred, "I'm drunk and I need to talk to Crowley anyway..."

"Okay, off with the both of you!" Aziraphale replied, with an indulgent grin. "But come back for me!"

Anathema pulled herself up on the table and pushed pass Aziraphale, giving him a kiss on the side of his head. "We'll be back, Angel."

Crowley would have stewed in his own jealousy if Anathema hadn't rudely yanked him up by the arm. He half stumbled, half followed Anathema up the stairs and outside the restaurant. They moved to the side of the pavement, and Anathema put her hand out. "Cigarette please."

Crowley leaned against the wall, pulled a pack out of his pocket, and his silver lighter with a snake engraved on it. He handed both of them over.

She took them, pulled a cigarette out of the pack, and lit it before offering them back to him.

He lit his cigarette and, on the exhale, said, "I like your friend."

"Oh my god, Angel is just the best, isn't he?" Anathema replied, "He's so funny and cute and if anyone hurt him I'd kill them and then myself!"

"I really...really like him" Crowley said, trying to say what he meant without saying it, "How in all the seven hells is he your friend?"

"Because I'm the best too," she replied smugly.

"You're a fucking witch," he said, taking another drag.

"Yeah, well, you're the fucking devil." She replied. 

"But no, really, I really, really like him." Crowley repeated, refusing to say what he meant. "Do you think he likes me?"

"Crowley, you don't give a rat's ass what anyone thinks of you!" Anathema smiled, "Anyway, Aziraphale likes you."

"Yes!" Crowley punched the air.

"... Aziraphale likes everyone," she explained, "He's like the living embodiment of a cinnamon roll."

Crowley's face fell. "Were you born this much of a bitch, or is it something they teach you in the colonies to get back at the British?"

"Crowley, he's my friend. He needs help to not get screwed over again. I don't want him thinking that you care about this."

"What do you take me for?" Crowley wrinkled his face in disgust, no mockery or faking, pure disgust, "No, really, what do you fucking take me for?"

"I take you for a dickwad who glues pennies to the pavement outside your room so you can laugh at the people going past," Anathema replied calmly, "You owe me a favour, but after the counter offer... please don't make me hate you."

Crowley finished his cigarette angrily, and threw it into the gutter. Then, as if remembering himself, he said, "Yoooou like meeeeeeee."

"Don't remind me" she smiled.

"No no no, yuuuuuuu like meeeeeeee and Angel likes meeeeeee."

"Yes, I like you, now do you want dessert?"

"No, but I could watch Angel eat all night."

"... Crowley, you’re drunk..." Anathema finished her cigarette, "let's go back inside."

Back in they went, back down the stairs and back into the intimate room downstairs. Anathema hugged Aziraphale from behind, making sure Crowley could see her when she kissed the top of his head again. Crowley felt a flush of anger rise in him. Then he noticed the six desserts laid out on the table.

He re-filled his glass of wine.

"You left me alone with a dessert menu. Not a sensible thing to do." Aziraphale grinned.

"Angel, have I ever told you that you overcater?" Anathema said as she grabbed a fork.

"Repeatedly and often, my dear." He smiled. He delicately dipped his spoon into a tiramisu, and then it flittered upwards towards his soft, pink lips. The spoon slipped in his mouth, and there was the smallest sigh of ecstasy as the cream hit his tongue.

Crowley was very glad he was sitting down, and that it was dark in there. He hid his expression behind another sip of wine. 

Anathema offered Aziraphale a taste of her delicate tortini di mele, which he accepted from her fork.

Crowley felt himself turn red, and grabbed an exquisite looking chocolate tart, drizzled in raspberry coulis. He stuck his own fork in, and it inelegantly collapsed. Must have hit a load bearing cream, he thought bitterly. 

He angrily ate the bit he'd broken off, and was hit with smooth creamy dark chocolate ganache, intermingling with the crumbly, slightly spiced crust and the sharp sweet tang of raspberries. He hated it and tried not to think about their seeds. 

"Oh dear boy, is it not nice?" asked Aziraphale, concerned.

"Oh, it's lovely," Crowley lied, swilling wine around his mouth, "would you like a taste?"

"Oh, thank you," he smiled. 

Crowley inexpertly cut another piece from the tart, and speared it with the end of the fork. He leaned forward, his fingers wrapped around the stem of the fork, a gentle smile on his face.

Aziraphale eyed the chunk greedily, and his lips touched the fork. Crowley could feel the friction of the ganache being pulled away by his lips. Aziraphale's eyes met his, and Crowley could see those pretty blue eyes boring into his soul. Crowley felt obscene.

Then it came, the slight movement as it melted in his mouth and the smallest of small sighs that makes Crowley feel like he was burning in the flames of hell.

"Oh, this is divine!" he exclaimed.

"Do you want to swap?" Crowley pushed it towards him urgently. 

"I mean, I've almost finished mine..."

"Absolutely fine." Crowley switched the plate of decimated tiramisu for his near untouched tart, "I'm full."

Aziraphale accepted the swap without question. Crowley moved what remained of the tiramisu around on the plate for a bit, before sinking back into his chair, refiling his wine glass and sipping it slowly. 

Between Anathema and Aziraphale, the two of them made short work of what was left of the desserts. Crowley put his sunglasses back on, so he could hide how greedily he was watching Aziraphale, delicately sharing a piece of cannelloni before finishing it with surgeon-like precision. Crowley couldn't quite put his finger on what made it feel so forbidden to watch someone enjoy food so much, but whatever it was made his loins practically ache with the desire.

The rest of the evening moved in a blur. He remembered Anathema grabbing his phone off him to call him a cab, and he remembered demanding a hug from the angelic man, and how he was all warmth and softness and plush roundedness under his clothes, and he remembered Anathema pushing him into a taxi, and watching as the soft man disappeared into the distance. He remembered getting back to his flat, all artful concrete brutalism and expensive minimalism, and finding it all too cold and empty. He remembered lying down on his too big bed and aching, unable to move. 

He was very glad when he finally managed to get to sleep.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> 1/ The menu for the meal is based on that for this restaurant: https://www.enotecaturi.com/food/index.html  
I looked for the kind of Italian fine-dining restaurant that I couldn't take my EditBear to, due to his issues with various textures. 
> 
> 2/ I'm a little bit inspired by [You'll Never Get to Heaven (if you're scared of getting high)](https://archiveofourown.org/works/20337796/chapters/48222490) and her wonderful descriptions of Very Posh British People. Also her fic is heartwarming and funny and AAAAHHHHHH I LOVE IT.
> 
> 3/ Please comment! I have a plan for what's coming next, but I like comments and questions, as they get my brain going! Next chapter will get a bit more angsty before getting pulled back a bit. There will be MUCH more cake eating.


	3. The Arrangement

Anathema climbed the stairs of Chancery Lane station at eight AM, cursing the early start.

Last night had been a hot mess. Aziraphale had refused to talk about what was going on, as usual, being all Mr Stiff Upper Lip when he didn't need to be, and Crowley...what the hell was up with Crowley? He was super-weird last night. Crowley was a charming jerk, it was his shtick, but last night he'd been nice, bordering on simpering.

Crowley wasn't that nice to people paying him hundreds of thousands of pounds, so what was up with his act last night? All the soft talking and hand holding and that fucking hug...

Anathema groaned as she remembered it. She had to practically pry him off Angel, all the while burbling _I don't want to go, I don't want to go._

She opened the door to Chambers, and did the morning checks to see if anyone had been pulling an all-nighter and would be in need of breakfast. As she climbed the stairs of the converted Georgian townhouse, she poked her head into each room, finding them blessedly empty.

She stopped at the kitchen, and got the cafetières out of the cupboards. All of them were demons straight from the devil's asshole before they'd got coffee into them.

As she was getting the cups out and putting them on the counter, she heard her phone buzz twice in quick succession.

She pulled her cellphone out of her purse and saw that she'd got two WhatsApp messages at the same time, one from Aziraphale, one from Crowley.

Good news first, she thought, leaning against the counter.

_Good Morning Anathema! Thank you for arranging last night, it was utterly delightful. Apologies for all the sweets, I blame the wine. Please thank your delightful friend for me, and let him know that there is no need to worry about the contract. I hope we can all meet in better circumstances soon._

Anathema smiled, sadly. If only Aziraphale would make himself a little more troublesome more often.

She opened Crowley's message, bracing herself for his usual awfulness.

_Hi Anathema, I'm very hungover so I will be WFH today. If anyone needs me (they won't) they can get me on the google phone number. Cracking night last night, your friend is amazing! How did you get a friend so good? Oh yes, my suit & gown is in my drawer, so please take them down to the dry cleaners, there's a good girl._

Anathema felt the heat rising in her belly. If only Crowley would make an effort to be less of a jerk all the time. She wondered how long he'd worked at that message, just to make sure it was as annoying as possible. That fucking ampersand was a tell, it would have been much easier just to let his phone autocorrect to 'and'.

She flipped the bird at the screen, and slipped the cell back into her purse. At least she wouldn't have to deal with him today.

*

Aziraphale had slipped into a new morning routine much more easily than he ever suspected he would. He was an early riser by nature, so since...leaving...the Miracle Foundation, he hadn't found himself sleeping in, but he had found that his morning routine had expanded, to fill in the gaps of his days.

It was only small things. He found himself taking a little more care when shaving, taking a little more time to apply an aftershave, a little more time choosing what to wear of a morning. He found himself taking a little longer over breakfast, allowing himself to get absorbed into a good book. Then he'd prepare himself a pot of tea to take into the shop downstairs, and deliberate over which of his records to listen to as he got on with the job of cataloguing.

This morning he had chosen some Schubert. He settled down at the desk, ready to continue the job to cataloguing the children's books. There weren't that many children's books, so he thought it would be the best place to start.

He picked up a copy of William the Rebel, and examined it, gently holding it in his hands. He looked at the spreadsheet.

There were some fairly basic categories to be expected, such as the book title, author, edition, condition (and condition notes), and some less expected categories, such as ‘occult?’ and ‘Smell’. Aziraphale took the more unusual categories in his stride; indeed, he knew exactly what Madam Tracey meant when she had constructed the sheet.

He picked up the next book in the pile, Billy Bunter the Bold.

Oh dear, he thought, I made rather a pig of myself the other night.

Anathema's description of the lawyer had made him out to be a disgusting, gangly creature with a horrifically rude manner and worse temper. So when he had been approached by a charming stranger with a flirty manner in the park, he really hadn't put two and two together. And with the utter mortification of having to share such a humiliating thing with a near-perfect stranger... Aziraphale's stomach lurched at the memory.

He had, perhaps, got carried away.

And that beautiful man, that beautiful man with the wavey, shoulder-length red hair and strange yellow eyes looked at him with such kindness and generosity that he had felt so... inadequate. So unbearably ugly and dull. He had seen the man watch him closely, and felt uncomfortably seen.

Aziraphale was a man of faith. He had kept the faith for the 38 years of his life, and would continue to keep it. Any temptation he felt from the ridiculously gorgeous man with the entrancing, hungry smile and intense, intelligent eyes came only from within. From his own weakness, his own stupidity, his own vanity. Aziraphale was a man. He did not consider himself a terribly attractive man, nor a good moral specimen, but a man nevertheless. And a man who lies with another man is an abomination. And the father of the church, Paul, said those who practise homosexually will not inherit the kingdom of God.

It was not the worst of all sins, that would be having no faith at all, but Aziraphale would wrestle with his sinful desires and demons, and he would win. God could forgive a repentant...homosexual...but not one who indulged in those particular passions.

He has wrestled with such thoughts before, and he would win, again. Even if all he could see when he closed his eyes was Anathema's friend, the flame-haired, bright-eyed man, that devilish, serpentine frame. He could still feel that tight hug around him. It was only meant to be a polite side hug, but that man had gone in for a full body bear hug, wrapping his arms around him like a vice. That hug, both utterly terrifying and heavenly perfect, and those whispered words as Anathema has removed him, I don't want to go, I don't want to go...

Aziraphale was a man of faith. He was not a beautiful man, nor a powerful one, but he could use the strength of his faith to prevent further... indiscretions. He would be perfectly, utterly miserable, but he would at least be faithful.

Aziraphale was brought back by a rapping on the shop window. "It's appointment only!" he shouted, looking up to see who was knocking.

"Aziraphale?" asked a commanding voice.

Oh no.

Not here.

Please not now.

Aziraphale froze for a moment, then coming back to his senses started searching his pockets for the keys. Hands shaking, he took three goes to put the key in the lock, and opened the door.

Gabriel smiled his wide, chiselled smile as he forced his way past Aziraphale, and into the shop, quickly followed by a man in a camel suit Aziraphale had never seen before.

"G... Gabriel, what brings you here?" he asked, as Gabriel trotted between the bookshelves, circling the shop.

"I was in town for a meeting, and thought I'd drop in on my little brother," Gabriel replied, in his calm, self-assured transatlantic accent. "Don't worry, I'm not here on business."

"Oh, that a relief," said Aziraphale, trying to keep up with him, "Would you like some tea?"

"No, we won't be here long..." Gabriel turned to the man in the camel suit who stood unnervingly still next to the door of the shop, "Have I ever introduced you to my colleague, Sandalphon?"

"Pleasure." There was something distinctly uncomfortable about how Sandalphon held out his hand to shake. Aziraphale accepted it as gracefully as he could, and shook it like a dead fish.

"I'm Mr Celeste's legal representation." He smiled, like an anglerfish.

"Oh Sandalphon, there's no need to be so formal," laughed Gabriel, slapping him on the back, causing Aziraphale to flinch. "I thought that as I had time before my flight back I would come see the shop!" Gabriel looked at the stack of books he'd left on the floor to categorise and said, "Madam Tracey certainly has a nice shop here...it would be terrible if you messed it up."

"Y...yes Gabriel," Aziraphale replied, resignedly.

"But time off work seems to suit you!" Gabriel, said cheerfully, and patted Aziraphale gently on the stomach. "Lost some of that gut!"

""T...thank you Gabriel," Aziraphale stammered, turning red.

"You know, you were becoming quite a porker there for a while."

"Y...yes Gabriel." Aziraphale looked at his feet, face uncomfortably red.

"Good work sunshine!" Gabriel smiled. "And you're having a good time playing shop?"

"Yes Gabriel." Aziraphale felt like his neck had fused, unable to move with the sheer weight of shame.

"Great to hear!" Gabriel boomed. Then, in a much lower voice he said, "I know I said no business, but I was wondering if you had got around to signing that paperwork I sent you?"

Aziraphale's red-hot embarrassment flash-froze into icy cold fear. Oh god, he thought, the contract, the ridiculously beautiful man had the contract! He felt so many different emotions muddle together that he was sure he was going to faint.

"N...n...not yet," he got out, "I'm... I'm... I'm... I'm... Having my l...lawyer look at it."

The air was sucked out of the room. Sandalphon looked like a shark that had smelt blood.

Then, Gabriel laughed. It was a booming, confident laugh of pure amusement, like a child had just told him that being grounded was a breach of the Geneva Convention. "Oh Aziraphale," he smiled, "I like that! Showing some responsibility for once! Atta boy!" Gabriel slapped Aziraphale on the back, just hard enough to hurt. "Oh, that thing is watertight, so you should just sign it and get it over with, but I love seeing you show that kind of initiative!"

Sandalphon smiled a tight smile. "Do you think you'll need some amendments?"

"I... I'm not sure." Aziraphale felt deflated.

"If your lawyer is any good, he'll tell you to sign it," replied Sandalphon. "It's very generous, given the circumstances... You're very lucky that your brother is so good to you."

"I am," Aziraphale replied, emotionlessly.

"Aziraphale, I can't let your behaviour go unpunished," Gabriel said. "You embarrassed Celeste & Sons, you embarrassed me, and worst of all, you embarrassed yourself. I can't have you pulling little stunts like that and having our name attached to things of a...questionable nature."

"I understand," Aziraphale said, as if repeating a liturgy.

"Celeste & Sons, we're the good ones. The ethical ones. The ones that men of a strong moral character use to invest wisely and judiciously. " Gabriel reached up to a top shelf Aziraphale couldn't reach, grabbed a copy of Mrs Beeton's Book of Household Management, and held the thick tome in his hands. "We are a family, and when one member misbehaves, it looks bad on the rest of us."

"I understand, Gabriel." Aziraphale prayed that God would snatch him up right that second, so he could ascend to heaven.

"You sign the contract, we keep your mismanagement of the fund quiet, you have a few years off to think about what you did, and if you keep your head down and use this as an opportunity to grow as a person, I'll give you an allowance." Gabriel smiled.

"Yes Gabriel." Aziraphale tried to hide how much he was shaking.

"Good boy." Gabriel patted his shoulder gently. " Now, we'll see that contract soon, yes?"

"Yes Gabriel."

"Oh yes, and how much for this book?" Gabriel asked, passing the book to Aziraphale.

The book felt heavy and unsteady in his hands. His hands were shaking hard, as he opened the cover, to read the price.

"Eighty...eighty pounds," he blurted out, with some effort.

Gabriel took the book from his hands, and with a smile gave him two crumpled up fifty pound notes. "Keep the change, sunshine."

Sandalphon and Gabriel left the shop, bell ringing on their way out.

Aziraphale stood looking at the door for a full minute before staggering to a chair, and collapsing into it. His head felt like it was full of static, his heart was racing, and his body just wouldn't stop trembling. He sat in that chair, trying his best to feel...human again. He sat there for what felt like aeons before he heard knocking on the door.

"It's appointment only!" he yelled, trying to sound sterner than he felt.

"Aziraphale?" He recognised that voice. He got to his feet, and half-ran to the door.

He saw the tall, handsome red-headed man at the window, waving and grinning manically, showing off those delightfully sharp canines.

Aziraphale found himself smiling despite himself, and opened the door.

"Hiya Angel," Crowley grinned. Oh, it was like the devil himself had sent temptation to his door. Those black skinny jeans, showing off his serpentine form, that clearly expensive jacket cut in such a way as to highlight his rakishness, sunglasses on despite how grey the day was.

"Mr Crowley, what a pleasure to see you!" Aziraphale cooed, despite himself.

Crowley looked back at him, calm and collected, and said "Just had some thoughts about the contract, and Anathema gave me the address..."

"Oh." Aziraphale felt his heart race again. "I suppose you’d better come in."

Crowley walked slowly into the centre of the shop. " You've got a lovely place here," he said, looking around.

"Oh, thank you." Aziraphale blushed.

Crowley smiled a devilish grin, standing in such a way to accentuate his lithe frame. "I like it here. It's sort of spooky. Big spooky fan, me." Crowley helped himself to one of the chairs next to the desk, and sat on it, resting his heels on one of the crosspieces, legs wide apart. Aziraphale was having some distinctly unholy thoughts about his position.

"Oh, yes, would you like something to drink?" asked Aziraphale, distracting himself. "I've not got much in, but I could make a fresh pot of tea, I have a few black teas in, or I could brew some green, but I only have teabags I'm afraid, or I could get the cafetière out and make coffee, or I could check if I have any chocolate in and we could have cocoa..."

"Aziraphale, please stop," Crowley replied, putting his hand out. "No, I'm not having this."

Aziraphale felt deflated again. "It's no trouble, I promise..."

"I know it's no trouble," smiled Crowley, "but you're acting like a kicked puppy. Can I tempt you to a spot of lunch? My treat."

"That...that would be very nice, dear boy."

*

There was a very nice French restaurant a few minutes’ walk from the bookshop.

Crowley had a cigarette on the way, holding it between those pink lips edged by stubble, and occasionally trailing it between his elegant, long fingers, drawing attention to the black nail polish which had been painted on haphazardly.

Crowley, made of sharp angles and smoke and self-assuredness, felt dangerous. Like a fire in human form that whispered to you to jump in and burn with him. Like a snake in an apple tree, hissing half-truths and temptations to Eve. Like a car driving 100 miles per hour through central London, except instead of stopping you want to push the accelerator and force the car faster.

Aziraphale idly wondered what it would be like to kiss him. Anathema had told him once that kissing a smoker is awful, but he was very sure he wouldn't mind, at least this time.

They were soon sat by the restaurant, and Crowley quickly ordered a bottle of the Châteauneuf-du-Pape. Once it arrived, and he had tasted it and poured it for the two of them, he said, "Right, I'm not going to bore you with the case law in this area, but the more I read into it, the more I think we can get a better offer."

"Crowley, please," Aziraphale begged, "the absolute last thing I want to talk about right now is that...dammed...contract."

Crowley looked a little taken aback, before he face set on anger. " Angel, you can't ignore this..."

"I...I...I know. I'm sorry. "Aziraphale sighed, looking defeated. "I had a bit of a bad morning."

"Rush at the bookshop?" Crowley asked teasingly.

"You could say that..." Aziraphale gave Crowley an impressive amount of side-eye. He was very glad that he was able to deflect this.

"This is a business lunch." Crowley replied, "we have to get the business out of the way.

Aziraphale sighed. He wasn't sure his nerves could take this. "What are you thinking?"

"Well, first of all, we can ask for more money." Said Crowley, "I was thinking about asking for half a million..."

Aziraphale choked on his wine. "Half a million!"

"...We start there, and then wait for them to argue it down."

"No, Crowley, that's way too much," Aziraphale pleaded. "They will just laugh at me asking for that. I've already got into trouble this month for frivolous spending."

Crowley looked at him as if he'd grown two heads. "I thought you'd been fired."

"Well, yes, I have, but Michael keeps an eye on my accounts..." Aziraphale muttered, ears going red.

"Who's Michael?" asked Crowley.

"My brother...I mean sister. We've always called her Michael," Aziraphale tried to explain.

Crowley took a long drink of wine, staring at Aziraphale through his dark glasses, clearly trying to decide which question to ask first.

Aziraphale panicked and started gibbering, "You see, whilst I had oversight of the Foundation, I've never been good with money and so Michael would help me out, make sure I'm not spending too much or on silly things, so whilst I was paid a wage Michael would make sure that my bills were paid in time and put an amount into investments and savings and I'd have an allowance, but obviously if I go over that Michael lets me know and she's always been a stickler for paperwork..."

"Wait, wait, wait," Crowley tried to stop him, his eyes flashing angrily behind the glasses, "Your brother, sister, whoever, goes through your accounts and treats you like a naughty child if they don't like what you spend?"

"Well, when you put it like that..." Aziraphale felt entirely humiliated in front of this clever, witty, downright gorgeous man.

"Aziraphale... it's not normal to have your family do this stuff," Crowley said, trying to control himself. "You need to get your sister, brother, whatever, out of your financial affairs."

"But Crowley..."

"Look, doing this stuff is easy," said Crowley, waving his hands. "If I could budget at seventeen, you can do it now..."

"Seventeen?" Aziraphale asked. "How come you were on your own at that age?"

Crowley scowled, and lifted the hair on the right side of his face. There was an angry red scar there, which looked like a snake coiled and ready to strike. "That's the last thing my mother gave me," he said darkly.

Aziraphale reached out, and touched Crowley's face gently with a finger. Crowley looked uncomfortable, even with his sunglasses hiding his eyes. "I'm so sorry this happened to you," Aziraphale said softly, running his finger along it. Aziraphale could feel Crowley's pain, not just that of the scar, but the fear he had felt in the moment, the sense of loss that came with it...

Crowley pushed Aziraphale's hand away, hiding the scar behind his perfect red hair. "Don't feel sorry for me," he muttered, "I've done very well in life."

"But Crowley..."

"Shut. It." growled Crowley.

Aziraphale didn't want to shut it. He wanted to hug him. He wanted to ask him questions until he knew everything and could help him carry that burden. He wanted to make that pain go away. But he could sense that Crowley would refuse any help. Aziraphale placed his hands on his lap. "I'm sorry."

"I'm your Counsel in this matter," Crowley said, looking away. "You need to protect yourself."

"I know. " Aziraphale replied.

*

And so, between bottles of wine and servings of delicious French food that Crowley barely touched, they hashed out a counter-offer to send through.

Crowley won on the money, half a million would be claimed on the basis that it would be argued down.

Aziraphale won on the non-compete clause. He explained that he would want some time off work, so two years without working in the charity sector made more sense than antagonising his brothers by demanding none.

Aziraphale also won on demanding a much better idea of what potential future employment would look like. Aziraphale was very glad that Crowley agreed to him returning, eventually. It seemed to be based, at least somewhat, on the idea that he would write something up asking for a similar role if Aziraphale ordered a dessert. They had drunk quite a lot by this point, Crowley making notes in his manic, spidery writing, so Aziraphale did not entirely follow the logic of why he needed to have a dessert for Crowley to do the draft. That said, once Aziraphale had ordered crepes, Crowley seemed happy with the agreement.

After finishing dinner, it was decided, somehow, that they should buy more wine and go to Aziraphale's flat above the shop.

Aziraphale was somewhat apprehensive of having Crowley in his private quarters, especially as they were somewhat humble, but if Crowley noticed sloping walls with greying whitewashing or the tired furniture and slightly grubby textiles, he certainly didn't say anything.

One thing he did notice was Aziraphale's music collection.

Aziraphale sat on the tired floral couch, as Crowley gravitated towards the shelves of vinyl records. Sitting uncomfortably cross-legged on the floor, Crowley began to flick through them with practised speed. "Classical, classical, classical, musical, musical, Top of the Pops, Motown hits, 60s girl band hits, classical, Gilbert and Sullivan..." he muttered, quietly. Then, turning to Aziraphale in a slightly improbable fashion he asked, "Aziraphale, do you have anything...less...old here?"

"I think I have a Kylie Minogue record in there somewhere," Aziraphale said thoughtfully. "One of the girls at the foundation thought I might enjoy her pop hits."

"Her...pop hits?" Crowley asked weakly, before pressing on. "Anything else?"

"I know that Gabriel is a fan of The Coldplay. There might be one of his records there."

Crowley stopped looking through the vinyl discs, as if told that one was made of spiders, and chose a Motown compilation to play on the ancient gramophone before collapsing onto the other end of the ancient sofa. He helped himself to the glass of red wine at his end and, smiling at Aziraphale said, "Well, the counter-offer is sorted, just to type up and send."

"Yes." Aziraphale looked into his glass of wine, sadly. "It's all sorted, isn't it?"

They sat there for a moment, refusing to look at each other.

"Well, the counter-offer is," Crowley drawled, "I mean, you'll probably need some representation further down the line..."

"I suppose so," Aziraphale replied quickly, "when the final offer is finalised."

They were both quiet for a moment. Crowley drank his wine. "Y'know, you aren't far from Chambers..." he said tentatively. More silence. "I could walk it easily..."

Aziraphale seemed to catch on. "...It does get a bit quiet in the shop..." he replied.

"...And I can always do with another place to work..."

Aziraphale looked at Crowley, who was grinning like the cat that had just stolen an entire roast chicken. Aziraphale wiggled slightly, and leant towards him, "...I think we could come to some sort of..."

Crowley leant towards him, their noses almost touching, "...Arrangement."

Aziraphale smiled, and then, as if thinking better of it, he sat back upright. "I think I would like that," he said quietly.

"Good, it's arranged, then," Crowley said, "I come here when Chambers gets too annoying, and you get a bit of company."

"It sounds utterly wonderful," Aziraphale smiled.

Crowley grabbed the wine bottle, topped them both up, and held out his glass to toast.

"To the arrangement?"

They clinked glasses. "To the arrangement!" he replied, with a naughty grin.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Finally finished Chapter 3! Or more correctly, I finally managed to pin my EditBear down long enough to edit it.
> 
> I've written up to the end of Chapter 5 now, and I can absolutely promise that they're going to have some soft time together, but so far I know there's a lot of angst.
> 
> Please leave a comment! I've been enjoying writing this, but I do like the feedback, especially if it makes me think about stuff differently.


	4. Homework

Three days later, Crowley turned up at the shop with a large box, a bag of pastries and two paper coffee cups balanced precariously on top.

"Good morning Angel," he grinned. " Let me in?"

"Crowley, what on Earth is all of this?" Aziraphale asked as he opened the door.

"Hastur was breathing too loud and I couldn't concentrate," he puffed as he brought the box in. "I brought breakfast!"

"Crowley, it's 11!" Aziraphale exclaimed.

Crowley put the box down on the desk. "Okay then, it's elevenses."

Aziraphale spluttered. "You still haven't explained the box!"

Crowley shoved the coffee and paper bag into Aziraphale's hands, and then opened the box with a flourish.

"This," said Crowley, grinning from ear to ear, "is your homework." He pulled a record out of the box and held it up by his fingertips.

The cover of the album was a picture of a brunette lady lying back on purple cloth, holding two dogs.

"Kate Bush?" Crowley said, as if trying to ask a leading question.

"No," Aziraphale replied, his face blank.

Crowley put the record back and with speed pulled out another one, this time with four men staring intently at the camera. "Queen?"

"Did they advertise John Lewis?" Aziraphale asked.

Crowley's face flashed with frustration, and he brought out a Velvet Underground record.

"Bebop?" Aziraphale asked. 

Crowley put it back in the box. "Y'know, if you lined up everyone in the whole world, and asked them to describe The Velvet Underground, nobody, at all, would say 'Bebop.'"

"Oh." Aziraphale replied, weakly. 

"If I’m going to be coming around here, you're going to have to up your music game," Crowley explained. "I was thinking about this last night, so I brought you some of my records." He was wondering if it would have been less intimate to move in his toothbrush.

"Thank you?" Aziraphale tried to sound grateful but failed.

"...just give it a go?" Crowley asked, managing to convey the fact he was doing puppy dog eyes behind his sunglasses. 

Aziraphale may have wanted to argue the point but found himself utterly powerless to do so. "Where do you suggest I start?"

Crowley grinned like a snake. "Kate Bush."

*

Aziraphale was very happy to find that as much as Crowley fought it, they fell quickly into a routine. 

Initially it was about every third day Crowley would stomp into the bookshop, utterly furious about work, usually about some part of a case he was struggling to get his head around or one of the barristers in chambers, and after a brief rant about the issue, he would tend to collapse melodramatically into one of the chairs in the bookshop before revealing that he'd bought some lovely sweet treat on the way. So they'd sit there, Aziraphale munching on a pastry, or cake, or some other new confection that was en vogue, Crowley wildly gesticulating with his, which after a bite or two he would inevitably offer to Aziraphale, who rarely refused it. 

Then, once Crowley had vented all his fury, they would chat about whatever as going on, whatever was on their minds - often the record that Crowley had set as 'homework'. Aziraphale quite enjoyed some of them, even if they were very different to his own. He frequently found himself humming a Kate Bush song as he wandered around the shop, or singing a few bars of Bohemian Rhapsody despite himself. He didn’t quite get The Velvet Underground, though. Crowley would listen intently, as if his opinion mattered, and if Aziraphale said he liked anything, would excitedly pull another record from the box, touting a similarity. 

Usually Crowley forgot about food, so Aziraphale would urge Crowley home around dinner time on those nights. On the nights Crowley remembered that food and mealtimes existed, he would take them to dinner, get them pleasantly tipsy, and give Aziraphale the most wonderful, tight hugs that lasted just a little too long. 

At some point, although neither of them could say when, Crowley started to appear more or less every day. Sometimes he'd arrive just before 9am, claiming he couldn't concentrate at Chambers; other days he'd appear as late as 8pm, complaining about some judge or client. Each time Aziraphale let him in, and they would just sit together, sometimes working side-by-side with a record on, sometimes chatting animatedly over a pot of tea or bottle of wine. 

Aziraphale rather enjoyed the company of the strange, handsome man who would turn up at odd hours and could barely sit still. He started to look forward to it. It was starting to have an effect on his waistline as well, unfortunately. His suits were starting to fit much better than they used to.

However, Crowley's change in behaviour had not gone unnoticed at Chambers. 

Beelzebub, the unofficial head of chambers when Lucius was away (he seemed to have been in the Cayman Islands for months now, the case he was working on having gone on much longer than anticipated), had called an unofficial meeting in The Chattering Nun, a pub near Chambers which had barely changed since the 18th century. 

Hastur, Ligur and Dagon sat around the table, looking awkwardly into their pints. 

"Snakey-face smiled at me the other day as he ran out of Chambers," she spat. "I don't trust it."

"So you called this meeting because that ginger streak of piss is not acting like a bleeding mingebox?" asked Hastur.

"I called this meeting because Crowley's not acting normal," she said. "He's gone from working all hours and acting like a howler monkey with a chilli up its arse to..." she waived her hand, "to barely being in chambers and only being a bit of a knob when he's here."

"Well, maybe he's just making some time for a personal life?" said Dagon, messaging on her phone.

"He doesn't have a personal life," groaned Ligur. "He hasn't had a personal life in years. Not unless you mean his fucking plants." Ligur sighed. "You know that peace lily in his room? He's had that since he moved to London. He'd marry it if he could figure out how to consummate the union."

"It doesn't take much to fuck a plant," said Hastur, as if imparting wisdom. 

Ligur wondered if he wanted to know more about Hastur and his history with horticulture, but decided he didn’t and said, "I've known him since Uni. I'm the nearest thing he had to a friend, as far as I know. I mean...this is really not like him."

"Aside from being one of the only three pieces of totty in chambers, I really don't see the issue," Dagon sniffed.

"I've only known him to go M.I.A. like this just before he left New Albion Street," said Ligur.

Hastur and Beelzebub looked into their pints darkly. They had been practising law for long enough to know all about the cases that haunted you for years after the fact. 

"Do you think he's getting ready to jump ship?" asked Beelzebub.

"I don't know," said Ligur. "We've not properly talked in weeks. I asked him out for a drink last week, after watching him finish up the Kandysio case, and he said he would just go home after writing it up." Ligur took a gulp of his pint. "Normally he'd be dragging me into the nearest Wetherspoons."

Dagon furrowed her brow. "Actually, now you mention it, I've not seen him late in the library. I've been doing some late hours myself."

"I'm not sure it counts as billable time in the library if you're playing Fruit Ninja and waiting for your Plenty of Fish date to turn up," said Ligur, dryly. 

"The devil loves a tryer, eh?" Dagon smiled, refusing to allow Ligur to get the high ground on this point. 

"Anyway, none of you know what's wrong with him, do you?" asked Beelzebub.

"No. But we can't trust him," said Hastur.

"Well, it would be a funny old world if barristers went around trusting each other" said Ligur sarcastically. 

"I think..." Beelzebub lowered her voice, "we might need...to talk to him." They looked at her as if she'd grown two heads. "Ligur, you do it."

"Why me?" he hissed back.

"You've known him longest." She buzzed back. "That, and you're a junior."

"A junior that's 20 years Call!" He glared.

"...and don't you forget it," she replied, meeting his eyes. They stared at each other for an uncomfortably long time. 

Finally, Ligur looked away. "Okay, I'll talk to him," he said, looking defeated. "But you know he won't tell me anything, right?"

*

Aziraphale was pacing the shop in a panic. Crowley was late. Or, more realistically, Crowley had given him no idea when he'd turn up today. Aziraphale's mind was whirling out of control. He couldn't breathe, he couldn't...

There was a rapping on the door. Aziraphale couldn't move. 

"Angel?" called a voice. More banging on the door. Aziraphale had frozen. 

Crowley opened the door. "I stopped by that new bakery we saw the other day…" He saw Aziraphale standing in the middle of the shop, overcome with panic.

Crowley placed the box on top of a shelf and grabbed Aziraphale's arms. "Are you alright?"

"Ah, Crowley," Aziraphale started to flap, "thank God and all the angels that you're here..."

"Angel, what's happened?" Crowley asked, holding his arms so they couldn't move. 

There was a moment as Aziraphale seemed to need to remember how the English language worked. "C...C...Cro..."

"Yes?

"Crow...Cro...cr...Cr..."

"Yes?”

"Crowley, I need you to mind the shop for a few hours." Aziraphale took another breath and said, "Madam Tracey needs me to go to someone who is selling a very interesting collection in an hour, but there's a delivery coming today, but they haven't said when today and I simply can't be in two places at once..."

Crowley looked at him a moment before bursting out laughing.

"Oh no, if you can't do it..." Aziraphale looked like he might fall apart.

"Aziraphale, Aziraphale, yes, yes of course I can keep an eye on the shop!" replied Crowley, punctuating every word with his hands. "It's fine, go, I can let the delivery men in!"

"Oh thank you," replied Aziraphale with something halfway between a bow and a curtsy.

"It's fine. Now, go."

"Oh dear, I've not got any tea ready or anything..."

"Aziraphale, I can make myself a cup of bloody tea! Now go!"

Aziraphale dithered for a few seconds before grabbing a bag from his desk. "You know, this is very nice..."

"Don't call me nice" Crowley snarled, "Nice is a four letter word. Just go!" 

Aziraphale finally left. Crowley set up his laptop, and whilst it was loading up, he checked up and down the street. Good, Angel was finally gone. Crowley went to the box of records, shoved next to the wall, and guiltily picked out a record. Considering that Aziraphale found Queen a bit too raucous for his tastes, NWA would probably terrify him. 

He carefully started the record and got into the flow of work. He scribbled down notes as he read through case law and checked and double-checked points of statute. He knew that most people didn't think of the law in this way, but sometimes, when drafting up a skeleton argument or advice, he'd find himself thinking of it as writing a symphony. Admittedly a turgid, dull, awful symphony that a few people would spend a horrendous amount of money on before locking away forever, but still, a creative piece, weaving together the circumstances and previous precedents and current ongoing battles. Crowley hated to admit that he actually enjoyed what he did, at least a little bit. 

It took him a surprisingly long time to realise that there was knocking on the door of the shop.

"IT'S APPOINTMENT ONLY!" he roared, as he was pulled back into reality.

The knocking continued. Crowley got up, cursing to himself, before throwing open the door and pointing to the plaque, "It's appointment only, can't you read?"

He looked down, and saw a young woman standing at the bottom of the steps.

She seemed put off by the tall, dark, angry stranger, but asked, "Does Mr Celeste work here?" 

"What do you want?" he growled.

"I used to work at the Miracle Foundation, I need to see him." She looked him up and down, and with a quizzical expression asked, "Are you his boyfriend?"

"No I'm not," Crowley muttered, looking at his shoes for a moment. "What do you want?"

"I...I want to help him. They've closed the Foundation and fired everyone, and it's wrong."

Crowley looked at her, her face and stance set with determination. "I'm his lawyer," he said, and checking no one was looking, said "You better come in."

"You don't look like a lawyer," she said, stepping into the shop.

"Well, you don't look like a charity worker right now," he retorted. He pointed and said "Go sit on that couch."

The young woman sat down, looking slightly uncomfortable. 

"So what do you think he can do?" asked Crowley, closing his laptop and then taking great care to lounge languidly next to her. 

"I...I don't know. But he must be able to do something," she said. "It was his Foundation, his work, his...his thing. One day we're getting ready for the next round of applications, the next the office is locked and we have to make an appointment to get our stuff. And Mr Celeste is nowhere to be seen. And none of us have been able to find him, but Rose heard a rumour about a bookshop in Soho, so I came here on the off-chance that it was true."

Crowley looked at her, and with a wide, predatory grin pulled his phone out of his pocket. "D'ya mind if I record this? It could be useful later."

"Err, sure?" she said, confused.

"Let's just say that it's insurance both for you and Mr Celeste."

He fiddled with the apps for a moment before saying, "This is Anthony J Crowley on September 23, 2019 at approximately…” he checked his watch, “let's call it one in the afternoon. I'm speaking with Ms..."

"Greta Kleinschmidt," the girl added.

"...Greta Kleinschmidt," Crowley said, without missing a beat. "Do you consent to this conversation being recorded?"

"Uh huh," she replied with a nod.

"Could you say 'yes', please, to show you understand?" he asked, rolling his eyes. 

"Yes, I consent to this being recorded," she said, her voice suddenly crisper and enunciated, like it was being pulled up by its bootstraps. 

"Thank you Greta," he said, placing the phone on the arm of the couch, "So as I understand it, you worked with Ange...Mr Aziraphale Celeste at the Miracle Foundation."

"Yes," she replied stiffly.

"How long did you work there?"

"Well, I started in May 2016, so I think that's a bit over three years ago."

"Thank you, Greta, and what was your job at the Foundation?"

"I started off as a volunteer, but I got hired as an Enquiries and Grants Assistant."

"Thank you for confirming that. So, can you tell me a little about your job."

"It's…it was a small foundation, so it was a lot of things, but most of it was taking calls from people who were applying for grants, checking over applications for anything that needed clarifying, and typing up paper applications." 

"Oh, okay, so did you have a lot of contact with Mr Celeste?"

"It was a small organisation, so yes."

"What was it like working for him"

She thought for a second. "It was good," she said, as if settling on an answer. "I liked it. He was a good boss. A bit stern at times, but good."

Crowley tried to imagine Aziraphale being stern, and failed. "How was he stern?"

"Well, this one time I came in really hungover, like really, really hungover. I was barely human and was just sitting there, trying not to throw up, and he noticed and gave me a really long lecture about being responsible. It went on forever." Then she smiled. "But then he got me a coffee and some painkillers. Like, he made it known when you'd messed up, but he was always more interested in getting stuff fixed, than in making it into a huge thing."

"Sounds like he was a good person to work for," Crowley smiled to himself. 

"He really is...was. Like, he was really good. He actually cared about us. I know it's a cliché, but it really felt like a family at times. If we had to work late, he was there, working with us. Even if he'd complain about the music we put on."

Crowley laughed. "I can easily imagine that."

"Yeah," she laughed, and imitating Aziraphale's voice badly, said, "I don't care much for The Lady Gagaugh, Greta dear. I much prefer music made from real instruments, not all these infernal beeps!"

Crowley laughed, remembering Aziraphale's opinion on the Human League. "So aside from a terrible taste in music, were there any issues you noticed at work?"

"No," she said, "that's the weird thing. Like, everything was going really well, we had more applications than ever, but..." she looked pensive for a moment, "I guess...he seemed nervous?" 

"In what way nervous?" Crowley asked, looking at her over his sunglasses.

"Like...just on edge a bit? I mean, he was generally a bit on edge during those periods, but he was a little easier to fluster? And..." She stopped herself.

"Go on," Crowley said.

She sighed. "Is it okay if I say something a bit... personal about him?"

"Sure," Crowley nodded.

"Well...you know how he's a…” She seemed to be trying to find a particular euphemism, but ended up with “...larger...person."

Crowley shifted position, trying to hide the fact that he felt a decidedly unprofessional interest in the matter. "Yes."

"Well...he lost quite a bit of weight. I mean, I know that's probably a good thing, but before he adored food, and then...he just didn't seem able to eat." She looked at her hands. "I thought that maybe he'd found something that was working for him, but now I don't think so." They both seemed a little lost in thought at that moment. "But, like, nothing really seemed wrong, then locks on the door! And he's nowhere to be seen. It was terrifying. And he hasn't replied to anyone's messages at all."

Crowley made a note to discuss this with him later. "Messages?" he asked. 

"It took us ages to get him to put WhatsApp on his phone," she explained, "So when it all went down we all tried to message him and call him and we haven't heard from him at all."

Crowley was a little stunned. Aziraphale was polite to a fault, so ghosting simply wasn't his style. 

"So there was no warning," Crowley said, deliberately. “You don’t remember anything else in the run up to all this?" 

"No." 

Crowley thought for a moment, resting his hand on his chin. "Do you remember anything about an LGBT shelter?"

Greta thought for a moment. "Sort of. I think I read the application before he did. It was a really sad story. I mean, I'm going out with a woman now and it all felt a bit…close. When I passed it to Mr Celeste he had a look about him. The look he got when he was going to fix a problem. I'm sorry, I can't describe it more than that."

Crowley didn't press on that point. "And he said something about a fee-paying school..."

Greta suddenly looked terrified. "Oh God, that place! They had an application in every year I was there. It always got binned."

"Why did it get binned?"

"Well, first of all, it was always a paper application. With awful handwriting. I couldn't read most of it. It would have been hell to type up. And Mr Celeste would always tell me not to bother."

"Did he say why not to bother?"

"He said it wouldn't get funding."

"Did he ever say why it wouldn't get funding?"

"No, but he knows better than the rest of us what the trustees want."

"Do you remember anything about it at all? Anything?"

"It was a Catholic school." She said, "but I don't remember the name."

"Thank you, Miss Kleinschmidt, that has been very helpful." He reached for his phone and, trying to look as casual as he could, asked, "Mr Celeste, did he ever have, say, a partner?"

"No, he always seemed quite lonely."

"Did he ever mention anyone..."

"Excuse me, is this relevant?"

"...no, not really," he admitted, between gritted teeth. 

"We all thought he was gay," she blurted out, "I mean, he just seems gay, right? But he's very Christian, so I don't know..."

The bell over the door jangled, and they both turned around. 

Aziraphale, face slightly flushed from having walked in the cold weather, pushed open the door. "Crowley, dear, I'm..."

"Mr Celeste!" Greta called out, leapt from the couch and ran over and hugged him.

"Greta, dear, what in heaven's name are you doing here?" he asked, hugging her back.

"I...I came here to see you!" she replied, "Everyone's been looking for you! No one knew where you'd gone, and when they locked the office and told us we'd been shut down..."

"Oh Greta, I'm sorry." He held on to her, so she wouldn't see his face contort in pain. "It's all rather a huge mess, I'm afraid. And it's my fault."

"But...but you're finding a way to fix it, right?" she asked, letting him go. "You've got a lawyer, and..."

"Child, it's rather complicated." He sighed, letting her go. "I made some bad choices. And I'm so sorry that I've ruined everything for everyone who worked for me."

Greta let out a sigh of exasperation. "It's not that we're out of a job. I mean, most of us have managed to pick up something, but... why didn't you tell us?"

Aziraphale froze, face stuck in an expression of horror. Crowley, whilst entirely in agreement with Greta, couldn't help but feel sorry for him. "Ange... Aziraphale, sit down."

Aziraphale sat down next to him, hands on his thighs, head down. "I'm sorry," he said, his voice low and dark. "I've been rather a coward about all of this. After I left, I couldn't bear to come back and tell you all why it was happening."

Greta sat down next to him. "We needed you."

"The last thing any of you needed was me, making things worse." He refused to look up. "Did they treat you well?"

"Who?" She asked.

"My brothers. Did they treat you well?"

"We got the last month's pay, and appointments to get our stuff," she said quietly.

There was a sudden change in Aziraphale. His right hand balled into a fist, and there was a flash of righteousness in his eyes. "Crowley, what's the law in this area?"

"It's perfectly legal, I'm afraid. They aren't even required to pay everyone for the rest of the month." 

Aziraphale's fist shook slightly. "They said that they were dissolving it, but they didn't say that everyone would lose their jobs without notice."

"That's how these things go," said Crowley. "Organisations close overnight, people lose their jobs and don't even get a bus fare home."

"How...how dare they," Aziraphale said through gritted teeth. "How dare they."

"It's legal" repeated Crowley.

"It's disgusting," spat Aziraphale. He looked up at Greta and said, "I apologise for their behaviour. I apologise for mine as well. I'm not sure what I can do, but I will make this right. For all of you."

Greta smiled. "I've missed you."

"Is Rose able to take care of you, whilst we look into this?" Aziraphale unballed his fist and interlinked his hand with Crowley's. "I know she's been through the wars the last few years."

"Rose is doing well these days" Greta smiled. "She's started hormones now. Feeling a lot better now."

"That's very good to hear." Aziraphale smiled a wonderful, genuine, loving smile. "Please send her my love."

"Of course. She'd like to see you again soon. We all would."

"That...that would be nice." Aziraphale's face fell.

*

Ligur hadn't exactly relished his new-found duty of talking to Crowley, but when he finally saw him a week later, his mind was set about what he needed to do. Beelzebub was right. Crowley was barely in Chambers anymore, and when he was, it was just picking up briefs or using the library. 

When he found Crowley getting ready to leave at six in the afternoon, Ligur stood in the doorway of Crowley’s room, and said, “Fancy a drink? Haven’t see you in ages.”

“Can’t,“ replied Crowley, “I’m meeting a friend for dinner.“

"Going anywhere nice?” he asked.

“Just a sushi place in Soho,” Crowley said, as he zipped up his laptop bag.

“I thought you said that sushi was for middle class people who wanted to feel travelled?” Ligur said.

“I did,” said Crowley, slinging the bag over his shoulder, “but dinner is dinner.”

Ligur laughed. "But seriously, I've barely seen you round for weeks. What's going on with that?" Crowley ignored the question. Ligur pressed again. "Is there anything going on we should know about? You're leaving Chambers at six, to eat sushi. That is the least Crowley thing I've ever heard."

"Nope." Crowley grabbed his jacket from off the back of his chair.

"Crowley, that's bullshit, and you know it." Ligur lunged, and blocked the door. "You're acting weird."

Crowley's eyebrows knitted together in frustration. "It's weird that you're blocking the door."

Ligur persisted. "It's weird that you're barely ever here and I can't get you out to the pub."

Crowley grimaced "Get out of my way,” ducked under Ligur’s arm, snaked around him and stormed out. As Ligur found himself standing in the doorway, watching Crowley rush down the stairs and on to the street, any doubts he’d had of there being a change in Crowley left with him.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> So, I realise that this is a bit of a nothing chapter, but I think we all needed a chance to breathe. I also hope that I got to show a little Aziraphale being capable, because I'm conscious that so far, he's not been. And he very much is. 
> 
> It also gives me an opportunity, as a music nerd, to nerd out a bit. I wrote a few versions of this with significantly more esoteric bands and artists, but I think I've got the balance right, here.


	5. Cloudbusting

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Okay, I have been bad at putting warnings in, but I'm going to try to be better, as the more I write the more I realise how much the background I have given Crowley affects him. 
> 
> There is the use of a classist/borderline racist term used in this, so please prep yourself for that. 
> 
> I also have tried to put in notes where there are terms/social conventions I'm not sure exist outside England, but I will, inevitably, missed some.

Aziraphale had been avoiding Michael's phone calls for about a week, before he finally had to answer, having run out of excuses. Michael’s phone calls were generally full of condescension and disdain for how he spent his time and money, but Aziraphale had convinced himself that somehow, she knew about Crowley.

Aziraphale knew, rationally, that this was not the case. The only other person who knew was Anathema, whom he messaged every so often and who had quickly caught on to the fact that Crowley was working at the bookshop. Anathema had no issue with Crowley working away from Chambers, and Aziraphale appreciated the company.

But it obviously wasn’t just appreciating his company, was it? If it was just company, he wouldn’t feel so…immoral about it. An immorality which he had to defeat. And having not seen Crowley for a few days, he felt the temptation of him fade slightly, even if something else ached in him.

It was in this moment of aching that he chose to accept the call.

"Aziraphale!" she barked down the phone. "Good to hear that you're still alive."

"Ah, yes, Michael, how are you?" he replied, his voice full of brittle cheerfulness.

"Good. Still in DC, tidying up that investment Gabriel negotiated a month ago. Hard work. Not that you'd know much about that."

"Ah, yes." Aziraphale felt shame start to creep up his spine.

"Found time to check on your finances," she said. "Aside from that ridiculous meal you had with your American girlfriend, you've been fairly frugal this month."

"Thank you," replied Aziraphale, glad Michael couldn't see the fact he was frozen to the spot.

"Losing the Foundation has done you the world of good," she replied. Aziraphale could hear the smirk in her voice, "Gabriel said that you finally lost some weight, you're spending sensibly...maybe working in a bookshop is more your _thing_."__

_ __ _

_ __ _

"Yes, Michael."

_ __ _

_ __ _

"Gabriel always spoiled you. I've been telling him that you needed to spend some time in the real world."

_ __ _

_ __ _

"Yes, Michael."

_ __ _

_ __ _

"Which reminds me, this counter-offer." Aziraphale could hear her rustling papers, "we've received it, the solicitors are looking it over. Gabriel said you'd hired a lawyer."

_ __ _

_ __ _

"Y-yes, I have."

_ __ _

_ __ _

"How are you paying them? Because I've not seen any payments go out to any law firms."

_ __ _

_ __ _

"W-well, he's a friend..."

_ __ _

_ __ _

Michael laughed. "Aziraphale, please don't lie to me. You don't have friends. You're too odd to have friends."

_ __ _

_ __ _

"O-oh, I don't know..."

_ __ _

_ __ _

"No, Aziraphale, we've talked about this before," Michael said, as if this fact were beyond dispute. “No one cares about your Victorian books, or doomsday prophecies, or how much you like crepes. You never know when to stop talking and it makes people uncomfortable, just most people are too polite to tell you to shut up. I’ve tried to teach you when to be quiet, and it just doesn’t work. It’s very frustrating.”

_ __ _

_ __ _

"S-sorry Michael."

_ __ _

_ __ _

“Anyone who is willing to stick around will be trying to take advantage of you.” Again, she said this as if it were established fact. Then, with another eyeroll which could be heard across continents, she asked, “How are you paying him?"

_ __ _

_ __ _

"We-well..You see…We have an a-a-arrangement," Aziraphale began.

_ __ _

_ __ _

Michael sighed. "Oh God, I spoke too soon. No wonder they insisted on so much money, if they're planning on taking a cut."

_ __ _

_ __ _

"S-sorry Michael."

_ __ _

_ __ _

"This is why Mama said you needed looking after. I think she knew that you were touched in the head. Feeble-minded. And now Gabriel and I have to clean up the mess." Michael sighed with annoyance. "Be glad you're family. If you were an employee, you'd have been thrown out on your ear."

_ __ _

_ __ _

"Michael, please..."

_ __ _

_ __ _

"...and you've hired some idiot who thinks he can get money through you. I'll get the solicitors to look it over, but don't come crying to me if that charlatan takes all your money." Michael ended the call. 

_ __ _

_ __ _

Aziraphale felt like he'd been punched in the gut. He sat down in the chair next to his desk, stunned. Then, after the longest time, he felt himself overwhelmed with sadness, and let out a loud sob. 

_ __ _

_ __ _

Maybe Michael was right? Maybe he was being foolish to trust Crowley, with his casual, cool manner and smile like a predator. He hadn't seen him for a few days, so maybe Crowley had forgotten him, in favour of a higher value prize. He had thought for a while, just a small while, that maybe Crowley liked his company. Oh, he certainly found him odd, but he seemed to...enjoy it? But maybe he was just being polite. He couldn't possibly imagine anyone remaining as interested in his witterings about the books he'd read or watching him eat sushi without there being some sort of... agenda. 

_ __ _

_ __ _

He checked his phone, and there were no new messages from Crowley. 

_ __ _

_ __ _

Maybe Michael was right. 

_ __ _

_ __ _

*

_ __ _

Crowley was having a hellish week. 

_ __ _

_ __ _

Since his little spat with Ligur, he felt like everyone in Chambers was keeping a much closer eye on his comings and goings. He'd been given an urgent case that was a lot harder to resolve than he first thought, and it had chained him to the library, and because of that he had barely seen Aziraphale.

_ __ _

_ __ _

Obviously Aziraphale still thought of him as a cross between a professional and a friend, and a few stolen glances or touches of the hand were barely anything, but Crowley hasn't realised how much he'd been using those moments to power himself on. 

_ __ _

_ __ _

He hadn't realised until he found himself being woken up by Anathema, having fallen asleep on a copy of Tolley's Commercial Contracts, Transactions and Precedents. 

_ __ _

_ __ _

"Whu, what?" he grunted, stiff from having slept over a table.

_ __ _

_ __ _

"Crowley, wake up," she said gently.

_ __ _

_ __ _

"I'm awake! I'm awake!" He sat upright, every part of him feeling numb. "I'm almost done!"

_ __ _

_ __ _

"Crowley, this is the third time this week. We need to have a chat about this..."

_ __ _

_ __ _

"No, no, I'm good!" he interjected groggily. "Why does everyone want to chat with me all of a sudden? When did I become so interesting?"

_ __ _

_ __ _

"As Chambers Wellbeing Officer..."

_ __ _

_ __ _

"Wellbeing Officer? Is that one of the Bar Council's new half-baked schemes?"

_ __ _

_ __ _

Anathema wanted to say something cutting, but found herself sighing and saying "As Chambers Wellbeing Officer I'm meant to notice when someone starts acting so...off"

_ __ _

_ __ _

"Well, okay 'Wellbeing Officer'," Crowley spat, "I'm here, in the library, working hard to save some multinational company an extra five pence per employee through tax avoidance. Isn't that what you want of me?" His weary eyes burned with sadness, "because apparently trying to have my own life makes me less welcome than a union at a...at a...a thingy. A thingy which hates unions."

_ __ _

_ __ _

"Crowley, you know it's not having a life of your own," Anathema said. Then, as if tentatively swirling the words around her mouth she carefully added, " They might all be emotionally constipated, duplicitous, conniving demons, but they do care."

_ __ _

_ __ _

"If they cared, they wouldn't be commercial barristers," Crowley said matter-of-factly.

_ __ _

_ __ _

"They're scared for you," Anathema said. "They won't tell me, but I can see it."

_ __ _

_ __ _

"They're scared of me," Crowley correctly dryly, "And that's how I want it, the fucking public-school 1 cunts."

_ __ _

_ __ _

"You know, Aziraphale went to a public school.".

_ __ _

_ __ _

Crowley looked at her, dumbfounded for a moment, and then something seemed to click in his brain. "Oh, I know what this is about." He paused, letting his brain catch up with the anger running through his veins. "It's about me and him spending time together, isn't it?"

_ __ _

_ __ _

"What?" Anathema looked genuinely confused.

_ __ _

_ __ _

"You think that I shouldn't be spending time with him."

_ __ _

_ __ _

Anathema looked entirely thrown. "Crowley, I know you guys have been hanging out..."

_ __ _

_ __ _

"Yeah, but he's a perfect wonderful angel. And me? I'm the evillest of evil fuckers if even half of what you think of me is true..."

_ __ _

_ __ _

"Crowley, you're not even the most evil person in the building, let alone in the world."

_ __ _

_ __ _

"...oh yes, we keep Crowley around. He might be a fucking _pikey_ 2 who went to a shitty _comprehensive_ 3in a fucking _slum_, and we'd fucking call the_ police_ on him if he turned up at our houses, but he works harder and smarter than any of those fucks who we played fucking _polo_ with."

_ __ _

_ __ _

"Crowley, stop it."

_ __ _

_ __ _

"And you see me and him, being friends, and you fucking hate it. You all fucking hate it. You all think he's too good for me, even though he's just an...an... iced bun with anxiety."

_ __ _

_ __ _

"Crowley..."

_ __ _

_ __ _

"And he's no perfect Angel, let me say that..." 

_ __ _

_ __ _

"_When was the last time you slept in a bed_?" Anathema screamed at him.

_ __ _

_ __ _

Crowley looked as if he'd been slapped in the face. Anathema trembled with anger as she hissed, "When was the last time you ate something? When was the last time you went a day without drinking? I don't care that you've been seeing Angel. I don't even know what a pikey is. What I care about is that you've been sweeping him up in your tornado of self-destruction."

_ __ _

_ __ _

"No I haven't!" Crowley snapped. "I would never do that."

_ __ _

_ __ _

"He's noticed. I've noticed. Everyone can see you falling apart at the seams.”

_ __ _

_ __ _

"I'm not. I've been keeping this up since I was sixteen..."

_ __ _

_ __ _

"Oh please!" Then, with a cockney accent that would have made Dick Van Dyke ashamed, she said, "Oh look at me, I'm Anthony J Crowley, I'm just a poor boy, nobody loves me! Pulled meself up by me bootstraps, but if I stop pulling for one second everyone will find out that I’m just a scared little boy who would rather throw insults than deal with my problems."

_ __ _

_ __ _

Crowley growled, and in an equally terrible imitation of an American accent, roared in her face, "Ooh look at me, I'm Anathema Device, I'm a directionless fuckwit who ended up running a chambers by accident and stays because I love feeling superior to the rest of this emotional freakshow!”

_ __ _

_ __ _

"Crowley,” Anathema growled back, “I swear to God, if you don't go home right now, I will throw you out of these chambers."

_ __ _

_ __ _

"I'd like to see you try."

_ __ _

_ __ _

"Go home.” Anathema made the words sound like a threat, “Go home and rest and maybe read through those papers."

_ __ _

_ __ _

Crowley grabbed his laptop and stormed out. 

_ __ _

_ __ _

Anathema was standing there, still shaking when Crowley stormed back in, grabbed his wheelie bag with the bundle4 in, and yelled "Tax havens! Less welcome than a union in a tax haven!"

_ __ _

_ __ _

He stormed out again.

_ __ _

_ __ _

*

_ __ _

_ __ _

Crowley chain-smoked, his hands shaking and his breath ragged. _Go home, go home_ she said. He hadn't had a home in years. Not really. 

_ __ _

_ __ _

He felt woozy as he walked along. _Go home, go home._ Where was home? There was only one place that was even close to a home for him. 

_ __ _

_ __ _

Pulling along his wheelie bag, he made his way to the bookshop, only kept going by spiteful determination. 

_ __ _

_ __ _

By the time he arrived, he was as white as a sheet, and shaking so hard he could barely knock on the door.

_ __ _

_ __ _

Crowley felt himself fall forward, having not realised that Aziraphale had opened the door.

_ __ _

_ __ _

"Crowley...heavens!” Aziraphale’s eyes were wide with concern. ”What on earth happened to you?"

_ __ _

_ __ _

"I...I...need to sit down," Crowley choked out.

_ __ _

_ __ _

"You look awful!" said Aziraphale, helping him up.

_ __ _

_ __ _

"Thanks." Crowley managed to sound sullen, despite feeling faint and dizzy.

_ __ _

_ __ _

"You know that's not what I mean,” Aziraphale tutted. "Dear, you look very ill."

_ __ _

_ __ _

Aziraphale looked concerned. That would not do. "I... I'm fine." Crowley shivered, "I'm just very tired..."

_ __ _

_ __ _

"You look like you're about to keel over."

_ __ _

_ __ _

"I'm fine," he said again, trying to force himself back into the world. "I just had an all-nighter."

_ __ _

_ __ _

"Again?"

_ __ _

_ __ _

"Don't you start!" Crowley groaned. " Anathema told me to go home."

_ __ _

_ __ _

"So why aren't you home?" he asked.

_ __ _

_ __ _

"Because I...I need to be..." Crowley looked like the cogs in his head had stopped working.

_ __ _

_ __ _

Aziraphale didn't press him further on that point. "Do you want to sleep here, dear?"

_ __ _

_ __ _

Crowley nodded. 

_ __ _

_ __ _

“I'm taking you upstairs right now."

_ __ _

_ __ _

"I'd like that." Crowley smiled dreamily.

_ __ _

_ __ _

Aziraphale turned red, but led Crowley up the stairs to the little flat. Crowley was sat down on the sofa, and tea seemed to appear out of nowhere. He held the mug with both of his hands, and sipped it carefully.

_ __ _

_ __ _

Crowley tried to say thank you, but he couldn't get the words out. He kicked off his shoes, and found himself curling up like a snake, his head resting on the arm of the couch. He hadn't realised, but his head was pounding.

_ __ _

_ __ _

Aziraphale placed a pair of neatly folded, blue-and-white striped pyjamas in front of Crowley and was about to leave when Crowley's hand shot out. "Please don't leave me," he begged.

_ __ _

_ __ _

"Dear, you need to change..."

_ __ _

_ __ _

"Please...just sit with me for a bit..."

_ __ _

_ __ _

Aziraphale sat gingerly at the other end of the sofa. Crowley crawled towards him, curling up on his soft lap. Aziraphale stiffened up uncomfortably and placed his warm, smooth hand on Crowley's forehead. "Dearest, you're as cold as ice."

_ __ _

_ __ _

"Please don't leave," Crowley repeated, "I'm home now. I don't want to go. I want to stay here forever." Crowley grabbed Aziraphale's soft, manicured hand in his clammy ones, and held it close to his face. "This is home."

_ __ _

_ __ _

"Crowley, you're not well," Aziraphale said, pulling his hand out of Crowley's. He gently pushed the thinner man off him and said, "Please just go change."

_ __ _

_ __ _

Aziraphale stood up, and closed the door with a quiet, but definite click. 

_ __ _

_ __ _

Crowley lay there, his heart breaking in his chest. He could feel the despair flood into his stomach and lungs. His arms and legs were like lead as he tried to move them. 

_ __ _

_ __ _

Crowley managed to slide his jeans off without standing up, and pulled the pyjama trousers on. Soft. He wouldn't have expected anything less. The fabric was soft and smelled of washing powder and cologne that had soaked in and couldn't wash out. 

_ __ _

_ __ _

He noticed with a certain amount of amusement that the elastic was slightly stretched out, and that they wouldn't stay up without pulling the strings at the waist much smaller than intended. 

_ __ _

_ __ _

He pulled the t-shirt off, throwing it on to the floor, and pulled the pyjama shirt on, enjoying another whiff of that scent. It was both comforting him and making his chest ache. He wrapped the excess fabric around him in a facsimile of a hug. It wasn't enough, but it was enough to get him to stand from the sofa, legs shaking, and make the five arduous steps to the bed. 

_ __ _

_ __ _

He sunk into the soft bed, hearing every creak as he moved into a more comfortable position. The bed smelled of him as well. Soap, water, genteelly expensive perfume which beguiled his spinning, aching mind. He quickly drifted into sleep.

_ __ _

_ __ _

*

_ __ _

_ __ _

Crowley dreamed of fire. 

_ __ _

_ __ _

He dreamed that he made the stars, but they kept coming out wrong, and he kept on asking why. 

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_ __ _

He dreamed of his questions frustrating God, and of glass turning into a snake and talking to a girl with an apple. 

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_ __ _

He dreamed of Aziraphale, looking stronger and nobler than he'd ever seen before, with a flaming sword. He dreamed of him giving the sword to the girl, and hurrying her out.

_ __ _

_ __ _

He dreamed of six thousand years, being each other’s life-raft in the turbulence of human history. He dreamed of oysters and wine and an arrangement which kept them both safe and separate. 

_ __ _

_ __ _

He dreamed of the end of the world, and being the only two people with any hope of preventing it. 

_ __ _

_ __ _

Crowley dreamed of the flames of Hell, burning all around him, he dreamt of coming to the shop and seeing it on fire. He dreamed of running in, trying to find Aziraphale, and screaming. He dreamed of his heart leaking into his chest, and screaming as the smoke filled him up and he couldn't find him...

_ __ _

_ __ _

He sat bolt upright, staring Aziraphale in the face.

_ __ _

_ __ _

"Dear boy, you were screaming!"

_ __ _

_ __ _

Crowley, tears in his eyes, hugged Aziraphale as hard as his weak arms would allow. "I... lost my best friend." He sobbed into Aziraphale's shoulder.

_ __ _

_ __ _

"I'm sorry to hear that," he muttered quietly, patting Crowley on the back. 

_ __ _

_ __ _

They held each other for a while, Aziraphale rocking him slightly, as grief dripped from Crowley's every pore. Crowley let out small, animal sounds of inhuman pain, and Aziraphale held him to his soft, warm body. Crowley gasped for air, in loud, big raggedy gasps. 

_ __ _

_ __ _

When they broke apart, it felt like the entire world falling away. They were the only two people in the world, and the only place was this room, above the bookshop, with a sloping roof and a skylight full of autumn sun. And the sun lit Aziraphale from behind, illuminating his golden curls, and his beautiful, rosy skin. And Crowley reached up to Aziraphale's face, holding it in his hands, staring into his blue eyes. 

_ __ _

_ __ _

They looked into each other’s eyes for the longest time, Crowley trying to breathe. Then, finally, he leaned forward and kissed Aziraphale.

_ __ _

_ __ _

That moment, that touch, that kiss, was everything. His desire, his longing, his desire to be home. The taste of Aziraphale was the taste of belonging, the taste of safety, the taste of a world he'd never known he'd wanted. He kissed Aziraphale, and it hurt, and it healed, and it tasted like salt and tea and human warmth. 

_ __ _

_ __ _

Aziraphale kisses back, with a ferocity which made Crowley's heart sing. Aziraphale grabbed him greedily and held him close as the lust and affection and desperation gushed out of him. His kisses were like a dam bursting, strong and forceful, and full of pent-up passion.

_ __ _

_ __ _

Crowley was lightheaded and exhausted, his mind spinning and exploding like a Catherine wheel. Dizzily, he broke himself away from the kiss. 

_ __ _

_ __ _

"I think I'm home, Angel," he whispered, and squeezed Aziraphale's hand. 

_ __ _

_ __ _

"I...I rather think you are, dear heart." Aziraphale kissed Crowley’s forehead.

_ __ _

_ __ _

"We're on our side..." Crowley said woozily, before promptly falling asleep again. 

_ __ _

NOTES

_ __ _

1 _Public Schools_, ironically, not open to the public. Public School refers to the higher echelons of fee-paying schools, often only affordable to the very wealthy, and the products of which are over represented in powerful positions in the UK (An example, whilst 7% of the population go to a fee-paying school, 29% of parliament is made up of people who attended public school. Of these, almost one in 10 member of parliament went to a single school, Eton.) Somewhere between 15% and 35% of the Bar went to some form of fee-paying school (I know that statistic sounds weird, but a lot of the Bar is tight-lipped about anything which discusses anything other than Default White Male, so this is a best guess from the information available.)__

_ _ _ __ _ _ _

2 _Pikey_, a slur used in Britain to describe people in the Traveller community, specifically those of Irish decent. It is also used to describe people of a so-called 'underclass', often depicted as being workshy, drunk/drug addicted, violent and feckless. Like a stronger version of 'chav' because of the anti-traveller element. __

_ _ _ _ _ __ _ _ _ _ _

3 _Comprehensive_, here being used as a contraction for comprehensive school. Because of the bullshit of the British class system, comprehensive schools were/are non-selective schools. The more snobbish elements of British society tend to perceive them as little more than holding pens for poor children. __

_ _ _ _ _ _ _ __ _ _ _ _ _ _ _

4 _Bundle_ A bundle is a literal bundle of papers presented in court, with specifics of the case being made and all the relevant evidence that will be called on during the trial. Traditionally, a bundle would be tied with a pink ribbon. As you can imagine, with any complex case the sheer amount of evidence in a case is huge, and it is not uncommon to see barristers in full court dress dragging around beaten-up wheelie bags around Holborn and The Strand. The courts have been making an effort to go paperless in recent years, but predictably this has had mixed results.__

_ __ _

_ _ _ _ _ _ _ __ _ _ _ _ _ _ _

_ __ _

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Whoo! I said we were hurtling towards the soft zone! I've been excited to post this for a while!
> 
> Also, in addition, I have a Tumblr. I mainly use it to stalk more talented people an repost stuff I like. Find me under https://bouncygin.tumblr.com/, please feel free to say hi as well!


	6. Substance

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Thanks for making it this far! 
> 
> **CONTENT WARNINGS: Internalised Homophobia, Internalised Fat phobia (both contradicted, but FYI), SFW Body Worship, Bad Language.******

Crowley slept peacefully, until he was woken by the pitter patter of rain on the skylight above him. 

He ached in that soft way illness made you ache, but was also buoyed up by joy. He felt a great calmness he wasn't sure he had ever felt before. Like the storm inside his head had finally broken, and the air had cleared.

He turned his head to the right, and saw Aziraphale illuminated in the moonlight. He was hunched over, facing away from him. Crowley rolled over, and lifted himself up on his right elbow. 

"Oh, you're awake?" sighed Aziraphale, surprisingly emotionless.

Crowley didn't respond. 

"I...I think I owe you an apology," said Aziraphale slowly and deliberately. "I took advantage of you when you were ill. I hope you can forgive me. I...should never have forced that on you."

Crowley levered himself upright. "Forced what?'

"That...that kiss," Aziraphale said quietly, as if simply saying it could cause the world to end. "I should never have allowed myself to be tempted." Aziraphale choked back a sob. "It's my fault." Aziraphale turned around, eyes red and wet. "I...I... I'm sorry."

Crowley felt his heart break a little bit. "Angel..."

"You're so beautiful," Aziraphale sobbed, "and...and I forced myself on you. This horrible, lumpen body." Aziraphale grabbed at his waistcoat, so truly angry with himself. "You couldn't possibly want this. Want any of this! Who would?"

Crowley had no idea what to do. So he did the only thing he could think to do. He held Aziraphale by his chin, and kissed him. He kissed him hard, and deep, and with all the intensity he could. When they broke apart he said, "I want you, Angel. I want you so much."

"But...dearest... You can't."

"Please. Let me hold you," Crowley begged. "I don't know what this is, but I've never been more certain of it in my life." Crowley wrapped his arms around Aziraphale, and tightened around him like a boa constrictor. "All I know is that I want to hold you forever and kiss your face and...I want you. I want you to be mine." Crowley kissed Aziraphale gently, on the cheek. 

"This...this is all very fast, Crowley."

"It is," he replied, grinning. "I've been moving fast since I can remember."

"I'm not very good at fast," Aziraphale replied.

"That's okay. I can wait for you." He kissed Aziraphale again, on his other cheek.

"Are you sure?" Aziraphale seemed surprised at the very idea. "You must have so many people throwing themselves at you."

Crowley rested his head on Aziraphale's shoulder. "Fewer than you'd think. Plus I really, really like you. Do you know how hard it is to find someone you like? Like, as a person?"

Aziraphale chuckled mirthlessly. 

"I mean, I've been with men before. But I've never liked one as much as you."

"I'm sure you say that to all the boys."

"No, I don't. And I've definitely not said it to all the women either. Or those somewhere between the two."

Aziraphale laughed. "Oh goodness. I'm very innocent compared to you."

Crowley felt his head fizz slightly, as he took in the thought. "Does that mean that you've..."

"... I'm a virgin, yes." Aziraphale paused, before adding, "I’ve kissed a very few people before. But not like we kissed." 

"Yessss," Crowley hissed, suddenly very tired. "I want you. I will wait for you. I would wait 6,000 years for you, if I had to."

They kissed again. "I...I would like that very much," Aziraphale confirmed. 

"Good." Crowley smiled, his canines showing. "Lie down with me."

"What!"

"Lie down with me. To sleep. I want to hold...you...so... tight." Crowley still holding Aziraphale, fell backwards, as if the effort of sitting up was too much for him. 

Aziraphale, still fully dressed, lay down stiffly next to Crowley. Crowley kissed Aziraphale again, this time on the forehead, and fingers still tangled in his golden curls, fell asleep. 

Aziraphale, despite himself, found himself sinking into sleep. Once he was submerged in sleep, he dreamed of water. 

He dreamed of the world flooding, and Crowley there, whispering, telling him that the Great Flood was a great unkindness.

He dreamed of the pond in St James's park, and feeding the ducks with Crowley.

He dreamed of the font in a church, just as it was bombed during World War Two.

He dreamed of holding a flask, full of water that would kill Crowley, but giving it to him because he couldn't bear to say no.

He dreamed of Hell, and Michael filling a bath with a jug. He dreamed until he was woken up by a loud crash.

Aziraphale opened his eyes. It was still dark outside, but he could just make out Crowley, trying to pull on his t-shirt with his hands shaking. 

"Dearest, what are you doing?"

"I need to get up. Go to Chambers. My clients...they're relying on me..." Crowley tried to stand up, but his legs buckled under him. 

Aziraphale caught him before he hit the floor. "You are not going anywhere in this state, dearest."

"No, no, I need to..." 

"You are not going anywhere like this," Aziraphale repeated, his voice more commanding this time, as he pulled Crowley up. 

Crowley tried to get up again, but couldn't quite muster the strength. "But Chambers..."

"I will go talk to Chambers," Aziraphale said soothingly.

"No, you can't..." Crowley gasped.

"Why not?"

"Because I don't want them to know..."

"Know that you're ill?"

"No, not that, because..." Crowley tried to stand up, but ended up losing his footing, and falling into Aziraphale. "I'm not out at Chambers!" he cried out miserably. They were both quiet for a moment, then, with a voice weighed down by sadness, Crowley said, "It's not that I don't want anyone to know. I wish I could shout it from the rooftops that I've kissed you. Really. But they're already bastards."

"That's fine." Aziraphale shifted uncomfortably. "I will just tell them that we're friends and I let you stay over. And that I'm bringing in your papers."

"They'll steamroller you," Crowley sighed.

"They won't." Aziraphale slid his arm underneath Crowley's legs and, as if to prove the point, grunted as he pulled him up in a fireman's lift. "I'm stronger than you think."

Crowley thought his heart might explode in that moment, being lifted by Aziraphale, and held close to his soft warmness. He threw his arms around Aziraphale's neck and nuzzled happily. "I could get used to this," he said happily.

Aziraphale carried him back to the bed, Crowley making a small sound of contentment.

As he put Crowley down carefully, Aziraphale asked, "Dearest, are you part bird?" 

Crowley looked a little confused, but replied "For you I'd be an aardvark."

Aziraphale chuckled at Crowley, but pulling over the duvet he muttered "You weigh barely anything." 

Crowley found himself drifting away quickly. "You'll be here when I wake up, right?" he asked, sounding like a small boy.

"Yes, dearest," Aziraphale smiled. 

"Thank you, Angel..." 

Crowley drifted off again. 

Aziraphale stayed there for a little while, stroking that beautiful red hair, staring at Crowley, drinking in his sleeping, peaceful face.

Mixed up didn't even begin to cover how he felt. He was terrified, so very terrified of what this all meant. But also bursting with joy, giddy on his intoxicating scent. He felt like he was falling, dizzy with vertigo and lust, a feeling like he could both die immediately at a single word and live forever. 

But even as his heart might fall out of his chest, he had to sort out those papers. 

It took a good few minutes for Aziraphale to be able to pull himself away from the sleeping Crowley, but once he could he went downstairs as quietly as he could and made sure he knew where the wheelie bag was. Then, finding a place where his voice would be muffled, he called Anathema from his mobile.

"Good morning, dear," he whispered.

"Oh, hi Angel," Anathema replied, "I'm just opening up chambers. How're you doing?"

"I'm afraid I have some bad news," he replied. "It's about Crowley."

Aziraphale could hear the eyeroll over the phone. "Ugh. What's he done now?"

"He came over to mine last night, and he collapsed."

Anathema was quiet for a moment. Then, "oh."

"He's not well enough to come in at the moment. I'm going to bring his papers in, but he's going to need a few days off."

"Angel, he can't have time off, what's going on..."

"I will bring his paperwork to chambers," Aziraphale repeated, "And we will discuss the matter there." Aziraphale ended the call.

*

Anathema had been broiling in her own annoyance for quite some time by the time Aziraphale arrived, pulling along the wheelie bag. 

"Anathema dear!" he called out.

"Angel, get inside," she hissed.

"What?"

"I need to talk to you in my office."

"Anathema dearest, what is this..."

"Please get inside."

Aziraphale lifted the bag and carried it up the steps. The bag weighed almost as much as Crowley. _How on earth does he cart this thing around_, he wondered to himself. __

_ _He entered the tall, thin building, and followed Anathema past the packs of people in dark suits, moving like vultures who'd just spotted a carcass. She led him into a small room, which only just fit a desk, two chairs, and a bookcase of extremely distressed files. _ _

_ _Anathema moved herself behind the desk, and said, "What happened?"_ _

_ _Aziraphale stayed standing, holding on to the tall luggage with a vice-like grip. "He came over to the Bookshop in an absolute state, and collapsed."_ _

_ _Anathema pinched the bridge of her nose and growled with fury. "I told that idiot to go home."_ _

_ _"It's a good thing he didn't, otherwise he might have collapsed on his own," Aziraphale said calmly._ _

_ _"Is he going to be in today?" she asked._ _

_ _Aziraphale looked askance. "Most certainly not! He's been asleep of the best part of a day! He is in no fit state to go anywhere."_ _

_ _Anathema groaned, "Oh God, he has got so much going on right now..."_ _

_ _"Well, find someone else to do it," Aziraphale replied, with a hardness in his voice she had never heard before. "You've been overworking the poor boy."_ _

_ _Anathema's face flashed with anger. "Oh, is that what he's been telling you?" she said in a sickly sweet voice, "Poor little Crowley, working hard because no one else can do anything?"_ _

_ _Aziraphale was silent._ _

_ _"He does this to himself," she said. "I keep telling him, go have something to eat, go sleep, have some time off, and he treats me like a...a...a.. nag!" Then, with a cockney accent so bad it grated, she said "Oh no, Crowley is the world's cleverest jerk, he has to do everything because everyone else is too stupid! Oh whoops, haven't eaten in three days because I'm too hardcore. Anathema, quit nagging me to sleep, even though I'm so tired I forgot the word for 'statute' and kept telling a judge that it was 'government law words’."_ _

_ _"Are you quite finished?" Aziraphale asked icily. "Regardless whether or not he is the author of his own fate, he is in no state to do anything right now." _ _

_ _"What have you two been doing, anyway?" she asked pointedly._ _

_ _"Listening to records, mainly," Aziraphale replied, refusing to acknowledge it. _ _

_ _"Listening to records?" she scoffed._ _

_ _"What are you implying?" he asked, darkly._ _

_ _"Well, Crowley certainly seems to think you two are doing something..."_ _

_ _*_ _

_ _Ligur had a hunch. As soon as he'd seen the stout blonde man walk through to Anathema's office, he had decided to hang around the door to listen in. _ _

_ _"HOW DARE YOU!" he heard him roar._ _

_ _"Excuse me?" he heard Anathema shout back._ _

_ _"I am shocked that you would imply such a thing! We are not even having this conversation!" _ _

_ _"No, I think we are having this conversation, right now."_ _

_ _"How dare you!" Aziraphale repeated. "No, you've got these papers, I never want to hear you making these nasty little implications ever again!"_ _

_ _"Implications? Aziraphale..."_ _

_ _The blonde man slammed the door open and stormed out. _ _

_ _Ligur had a sudden lightbulb moment. What had Crowley confessed one drunken night at University..._ _

_ _Anathema saw him, and shouted, "Haven't you got work to do?" Ligur grinned back like a crocodile. She sighed, and said, "If you see Beelzebub, tell her I need to talk. Crowley's ill."_ _

_ _Ligur went to Hastur's room, where he knew Beelzebub was discussing some work. He knocked, then came in anyway._ _

_ _"What do you want?" she snapped, full South London falling out of her mouth._ _

_ _"Anathema wants to see you." Ligur grinned._ _

_ _"Satan preserve us." She rolled her eyes. "Hastur, I'll be back in a minute."_ _

_ _After Beelzebub left the room, he continued grinning._ _

_ _"You look like the cat that's fucked the turkey," said Hastur. "What's that all about?"_ _

_ _"I've worked out why Crowley's been weird recently," Ligur said, with a wiggle of the eyebrow. _ _

_ _"Oh, have ye?" Hastur replied._ _

_ _"And you will kick yourself when you work it out," Ligur said, in a voice saturated with giggles. _ _

_ _"Are you going to tell me?"_ _

_ _"No," Ligur giggled._ _

_ _"Good. The less I know about that ginger poxbottle the better,” Hastur snapped._ _

_ _"Oh, you will absolutely kick yourself when you work it out."_ _

_ _"Well, fuckity bye, then." _ _

_ _Ligur grinned to himself. Oh, this was going to be so much fun. _ _

_ _* _ _

_ _Crowley was woken up by the smell of hot tea and warm, buttery toast. _ _

_ _Aziraphale, his golden curls shining in the weak autumn sun, had placed a tray next to the bed._ _

_ _"Good morning, handsome," Crowley croaked. He reached his hand out for Aziraphale's, who obliged with a little squeeze. _ _

_ _"Good morning dearest," Aziraphale smiled, "I made you some breakfast."_ _

_ _"Ngk. Thanks." Crowley sat up, suddenly feeling dizzy. _ _

_ _"Oh dear..."_ _

_ _"Don't worry, nothing a pint of tea won't fix..." said Crowley, hands shaking as he grabbed a mug of black tea from Aziraphale's other hand. After sucking half the mug down, he kissed Aziraphale on the cheek and settled his chin on the other man's shoulder, their hands still entwined. _ _

_ _"How was Chambers?" Crowley asked hesitantly._ _

_ _"They're fine," replied Aziraphale. "They know they won't see you for a few days."_ _

_ _"Good," said Crowley. "I'm not sure I could concentrate today." Crowley kissed Aziraphale on the cheek. _ _

_ _Aziraphale flushed, and passed him the toast. "Try and eat a little."_ _

_ _"Thanks Angel." Crowley grabbed a slice of the thick-cut white loaf, slathered in butter, and bit into it. "This is good." He took another bite, "I didn't realise how hungry I was." He tore at the slice with his teeth._ _

_ _"Crowley, out of interest, when was the last time you ate?" asked Aziraphale._ _

_ _Crowley stopped eating for a moment, and eyes looking up and to the right, thought about the question. "Uh, I think I had a sandwich two days ago." _ _

_ _Aziraphale looked as shocked as Crowley was nonchalant. _ _

_ _ _"A sandwich two days ago?"_ Aziraphale repeated, horrified.__ _ _

_ _ _ _"Yeah. Leftover from a client meeting."_ _ _ _

_ _ _ _ _"Left over from a client meeting!"___ _ _ _ _

_ _ _ _ _ _Crowley finished the slice of bread. "I get very...focused...when I'm working."_ _ _ _ _ _

_ _ _ _ _ _"So focused you forget to eat or sleep?"_ _ _ _ _ _

_ _ _ _ _ _Crowley grabbed a second slice, and tore into it ravenously. "I know it sounds odd," he said, talking with his mouth full, "But once I get caught up in an idea, I don't always act rationally."_ _ _ _ _ _

_ _ _ _ _ _"Well, that's an understatement." Aziraphale raised an eyebrow. _ _ _ _ _ _

_ _ _ _ _ _Crowley finished the second slice of toast by cramming it into his mouth, and reached for the mug of tea. _ _ _ _ _ _

_ _ _ _ _ _"Crowley, can I ask you something?"_ _ _ _ _ _

_ _ _ _ _ _Crowley looked at him through his hair. "Sure."_ _ _ _ _ _

_ _ _ _ _ _"Do I disgust you?"_ _ _ _ _ _

_ _ _ _ _ _Crowley felt like he'd been hit by lightning. Raw from shock he sat up and exclaimed "What?"_ _ _ _ _ _

_ _ _ _ _ _"I... I'm sorry, I shouldn't have asked..."_ _ _ _ _ _

_ _ _ _ _ _"Angel, I was just snogging you. That wasn't an accident. I wanted to kiss you. What sort of a question is that?"_ _ _ _ _ _

_ _ _ _ _ _Aziraphale seemed utterly befuddled. "Well, I've been flirting with you and certainly been lusting after you terribly, and it's not natural..."_ _ _ _ _ _

_ _ _ _ _ _Crowley slumped back. "Not natural? Angel, I thought you were cleverer than that."_ _ _ _ _ _

_ _ _ _ _ _"What?"_ _ _ _ _ _

_ _ _ _ _ _"You mean aside from the fact that natural law is complete bollocks?" sighed Crowley, "I mean, if humans only did natural things we'd still be living in woods and dying from smallpox. If there is one animal you can look at and go _It’s not natural_, it's man. Absolutely nothing about us is natural."___ _ _ _ _ _

_ _ _ _ _ _ _ _"Crowley, I don't know if you understand. What I want from you is...is sinful."_ _ _ _ _ _ _ _

_ _ _ _ _ _ _ _"Sinful? Tell me everything," Crowley purred, a spark of delight in his eyes._ _ _ _ _ _ _ _

_ _ _ _ _ _ _ _"Crowley, this is serious!" Aziraphale exclaimed._ _ _ _ _ _ _ _

_ _ _ _ _ _ _ _"So am I!" Crowley replied._ _ _ _ _ _ _ _

_ _ _ _ _ _ _ _Aziraphale took a deep breath. "I...I want you kiss you. And hold you. And I want you to hold me and kiss me too. And I want to please you." Aziraphale blushed as he said, "... _physically_, I mean."___ _ _ _ _ _ _ _

_ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _"It sounds like you want to fuck me." _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _

_ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _Aziraphale looked offended. "Well, when you put it like that..."_ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _

_ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _"No, that's good. Because I want that too. I want to listen to you talk about books, and watch as you do that little wiggle thing you do when you get excited about something, and I want to take you out for dinner and watch you eat and then take you home and..."_ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _

_ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _"...then why is it that when we're out you barely eat?"_ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _

_ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _The words hung in the air, hot and angry. _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _

_ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _Crowley's heart beat hard in his chest, the sound filling his ears. Oh no. He'd have to explain this. He hated explaining this. To be honest, he didn't quite understand this himself. But he couldn't leave things here._ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _

_ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _"I'm...just not very good at food," he replied weakly. _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _

_ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _"Not very good at food?"_ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _

_ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _"I...I know, it sounds weird, but I've just never been good at food. It's, like, I grew up poor and most of the food we had was disgusting, and then I went through university on grants and food was the lowest priority, and then...I just never got the hang of it? I love watching you eat. I could watch you eat all day, but when I eat all the flavours and textures just end up...a bit...much?" He sighed. "I know it sounds insane, but it's been easier to not eat for me. I like seeing other people eat, y'know. I can appreciate it from a distance. It’s hard to explain." By this point, Crowley was as red as his hair. "I know I sound like I'm lying..."_ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _

_ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _"No you don't," said Aziraphale, kindly. "I'm in no position to talk. I know I'm a glutton..."_ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _

_ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _"But you're not!" said Crowley desperately, "Or if you are, it's a very pleasant sort. It makes you happy. It makes you excited. And that's not a bad thing." He kissed Aziraphale's face again, "I might not be good at food, but I do like watching you enjoy yourself."_ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _

_ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _Aziraphale turned a little red. "Well, maybe I should enjoy myself a little less," he said, hand on his soft stomach for emphasis, "I'm getting pretty large..."_ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _

_ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _Crowley turned an interesting shade of brick red. He wanted to protest and say, _don't you dare. Your body is beautiful and round and soft and makes me want to worship you day and night. Why would you want to be less than you are?_ Instead he placed a hand on Aziraphale's soft, rounded belly, which filled the waistcoat he was wearing. Crowley felt a shift under his hand, of discomfort, but leaned forward for another kiss. ___ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _

_ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _Their kiss was beautiful and soft, and hungry. Oh so hungry. As much as Crowley had been asleep, the few hours of separation had felt like a starvation he had forgotten existed. Aziraphale tasted of tannin and sweetness. His brain felt like a star exploding, and left him giddy and giggling. He slowly undid that waistcoat, button by button, his fingers unsure and fumbling. _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _

_ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _Finally, the last button was undone, and he slid his cold hands around Aziraphale's soft waist. However, before he knew it, he felt Aziraphale push his arms back. "I'm not ready for that yet, dearest," he whispered. _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _

_ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _Crowley felt crestfallen. He looked down at Aziraphale's torso, and saw the curved outline of his pillowy stomach veiled by the fabric of the shirt. He just wanted to touch it, feel it, nothing more than that, at least to start with._ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _

_ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _Aziraphale shifted slightly, moving away from him. "I'm sorry. I...I... I'm not comfortable..."_ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _

_ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _"That's alright," said Crowley sadly._ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _

_ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _"I want to. I very much want to." _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _

_ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _"But what made you uncomfortable?"_ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _

_ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _"I... I'm not ready to be...undressed. Not yet." _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _

_ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _"Oh, that's okay." Crowley smiled. "Tell you what, I could just hold you, but over your clothes? Would that make you feel better?"_ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _

_ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _"It's not just that." Aziraphale shifted again. "I've put on a bit of weight recently...all those fine dinners you keep taking me for!"_ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _

_ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _"So?" Crowley did not want to have to admit anything else today._ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _

_ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _"And, well... you're very handsome. And slim..."_ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _

_ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _"Angel, I've seen you," Crowley replied, matter-of-factly, "'It’s not like I didn't know you're bigger than me..."_ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _

_ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _"...but I don't know if you realise how heavy I am..." Aziraphale looked like he might fall apart from shame. "If you can wait a bit, I can lose weight, be worthy of you..."_ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _

_ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _"You're worthy of me now," insisted Crowley. "I like your body. I like that you're soft." He placed his hands on Aziraphale's hips, to prove his point. "I don't want you to feel uncomfortable, but..." Crowley tried to find a way to phrase what he meant, but ended up saying, "I enjoy a man of substance, and you, Angel," Crowley stared into Aziraphale's eyes, "are the kind of substance I enjoy."_ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _

_ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _Aziraphale seemed to realise something. "So, every day you've been tempting me with some tasty treat, or brought wine or we've gone for dinner..."_ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _

_ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _"I like how happy food makes you..." protested Crowley. "It could have been plants if you were into plants."_ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _

_ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _"...You've been enjoying how positively fat I am!"_ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _

_ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _Crowley turned as red as his hair._ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _

_ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _"You willy old serpent, you," Aziraphale chuckled, and placing his hands either side of Crowley's face, kissed him. _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _

_ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _"Don't make it sound so tawdry!" Crowley complained. "I find you very attractive!'_ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _

_ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _Aziraphale gently pushed Crowley to the bed, both of them still giggling and kissing. Aziraphale found himself straddling the smaller man, and Crowley, with a mischievous look in his yellow eyes, pulled the bow tie undone, and started to work on the buttons of his shirt. _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _

_ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _Once the buttons were undone, Crowley slipped his cold hands into the shirt, and placed them on Aziraphale's luscious hips. Aziraphale repressed a shiver of self-consciousness as he saw Crowley’s face light up, as if he'd been gifted the most wonderful treasure. Crowley stroked those soft, pliable hips with his thumbs, and gently raised his head to the base of Aziraphale's sternum, and kissed it gently. Then he followed the trail of blonde hair down, slowly kissing that stomach, lips marking out the curve._ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _

_ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _"Yes," Crowley hummed, "a beautiful, clever, wonderful man of substance."_ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _

_ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _"You are utterly ridiculous" Aziraphale smiled, looking down at him from above. _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _

_ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _"And so are you." Crowley replied, with a kiss._ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Yay! Nowhere as many notes needed this chapter, as I think the only brit/legal-splaining needed is 'snogging', which is basically really passionate kissing, with connotations of gentle fondling.
> 
> Without giving too much away, next chapter will probably be a bit of a footnote-fest. 
> 
> Please leave a comment if you can. I really appreciate the feedback, and whilst I have a definite plan for the plot I do find comments I've read have really helped me figure out the details as I go along. 
> 
> Also, I have a tumblr which I mainly use for re-blogging stuff, with occasional original posts. Please come say hello here - https://bouncygin.tumblr.com/
> 
> I'm trying to post once a week, on a Saturday, and will try my best to keep to that schedule.


	7. Back to Work

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Hi all, getting this up before I go to the Holy Helloween - A Good Omens Party tonight! If you're there, please come and say hi. 
> 
> I'll be dressed as a socially awkward, dreary goff in their 30s, because I ran out of spoons for costume making this year. 
> 
> **CW: Bad language, brief discussion of systemic issues with the Bar, excessive use of footnotes, SFW body worship**

The next morning, an incredibly large bouquet of yellow roses turned up at Chambers for Anathema.

She searched the stems for the card, and pulled it off, holding it close to her face as she read it.

Once she read it, a huge grin creeped across her face. 

It said, _You were right. I'm sorry I acted appallingly, I have so much to thank you for. Much love, Angel._

*

It really did take another week for Crowley to recover sufficiently to be well enough to go back to work. It really did. But Crowley took longer still to head back to work.

Those early, autumn days melted together in his mind. Days of lying in bed with Aziraphale, fingers intertwined, kissing and soaking up the feelings of peace, contentment and sanctuary. They moved slowly, as Aziraphale wasn’t quite ready for the tidal wave of lust Crowley felt. He could have performed some very unholy acts on that beautiful body, but he knew he had to give him time. In the meantime, Crowley enjoyed being curled up next to Aziraphale's soft warmness, listening to him talk, to his breath, to all those small sounds of a body which remind you, this is real.

Aziraphale enjoyed how Crowley felt resting on his body. The way his arms and legs snaked around him greedily, and the way he would eye him up hungrily. It was hard not to be excited when such a handsome man considered you to not only be attractive, but to truly act as if you were the pinnacle of beauty. Oh, and that lovely long red hair! Crowley would often curl up on his belly, and Aziraphale would find himself running his fingers through his hair, curling his locks with his fingers. Crowley certainly did not seem to mind at all. 

They barely left each other’s sides, those days. The longest time was when Crowley popped back to his Mayfair flat to grab some clothes, some new records and a few bottles of good wine, feeling like a burglar in his own apartment. Each moment he was away, he felt bereft, and so trips out alone were kept to a minimum 

That said, trips out together were frequent. Heading out into Soho, holding hands as an experiment, talking, walking, and in some more tucked-away alleys and corners of _café_s, kissing. Aziraphale would furiously blush at kissing in public, and would get very self-conscious if anyone stared at them, but Crowley enjoyed being stared at, so he could stare back, his expression one of defiance and possessiveness. He wanted everyone to know about his Angel.

Aziraphale did have to admit, there was something wonderful about getting coffee and cake together, holding hands as they paid, holding hands whilst drinking, allowing themselves little fluttering kisses on the cheek every so often. It felt so…naughty, being so open, even where they were anonymous. It was very strange and wonderful to feel like someone enjoyed him being happy. 

Aziraphale's happiness had generally been a problem before. Too much time with books and sweets made him much too…much. It made him much too odd, and much too large and much too soft in a world made of sharp edges. A man who was so many wrong things was much too much to exist without purpose. But Crowley enjoyed him existing, not for any purpose that Aziraphale could make out, other than Crowley simply enjoying how Aziraphale enjoyed things, going so far as to keep up his habit of ordering the second favourite in Aziraphale's deliberations, eating a few bites of it and then allowing his Angel to finish it.

And Crowley enjoyed Aziraphale enjoying things very much. Oh, he enjoyed how much he enjoyed food and books, and could talk about the art of card tricks, his eyes lighting up with joy as Crowley pretended his didn’t notice the sleight of hand. Crowley enjoyed listening to Aziraphale talk at great length about David Devant’s thoughts on the art of magic whilst holding his hand and sipping cocoa. He enjoyed making Aziraphale listen to some famous, over-saturated band, like Pulp or the Pet Shop Boys, and watching him appreciate them like a child who'd never heard them before. Crowley enjoyed his hedonistic Angel very much and couldn't help but feel at peace when with him. 

He wanted to spend the rest of his days doing very little else than being near Aziraphale, but frantic calls from Chambers, and former clients needing clarifications and assistance, started to drag him away. 

The night before his return, despite many protests, Aziraphale had laid out his clothes neatly for him, and prepared his bag. They were curled up in bed, Crowley resting his chin on his Angel's soft stomach, and Aziraphale playing with Crowley's red hair. They both were trying to be chipper, despite feeling uneasy and sad. 

"I promise I'll be straight home," Crowley said. "I don't want to be there a minute longer than I have to be."

"I know you don't, dearest, but my concern is more than you'll be there for twelve hours and not have bothered to eat, or rest, or do anything other than wind yourself into a frenzy about one thing or another."

Crowley felt uncomfortably seen. He gently kissed Aziraphale's stomach and said, "I promise."

"You do?"

"Yes. I promise on your beautiful, soft tummy." He kissed the belly again.

Aziraphale chuckled contentedly and said, "You are very strange."

"Oh, so it's strange that I fancy my boyf...you!" Crowley corrected himself. Aziraphale, despite everything, still was uncomfortable with that label. They hadn't really set upon what to call themselves, but Crowley would call them boyfriends in his mind, whilst being speechless out loud. 

Aziraphale kissed Crowley's forehead and smiled. "I'm very glad of it, even if I don't understand it."

"Good." Crowley kissed Aziraphale again and settled down to sleep. Crowley resisted the urge to say _I love you_, but instead pulled Aziraphale close to him. 

Aziraphale resisted the urge to say _I love you_ as Crowley drew him close, and instead sunk into their embrace.

*

The next day, Crowley woke to find the bed empty. There was a moment of panic, before he heard the noise of the toaster in the kitchenette popping, and the general sounds of breakfast being made. 

Crowley got out of bed, still wearing one of Aziraphale's shirts, and padded barefoot over to little kitchen. He was a little surprised that Aziraphale was fully dressed, but enjoyed the view of his arse in those well-tailored trousers. He put his chin on Aziraphale's head, and then loosely put his arms around him. "G'morning Angel," he purred.

"Good morning, dearest," Aziraphale replied, pulling his arms around him. "Slept well?"

"Yes." Crowley kissed his neck. "Why're you up so early? I don't mind you staying in bed when I have to get up."

"I was thinking about what 'not good with food' meant last night," Aziraphale said thoughtfully, "and part of the issue seems to be not having time for it, correct?"

"Aziraphale, don't worry about it..."

"Too late." Aziraphale grinned. "So, you are very busy, and I am...rather not. So, it makes sense that I arrange breakfast and lunch for you, so you can concentrate on working." Aziraphale passed him a mug of tea and a plate with two slices of buttered toast. "Sit down and eat, dearest." Aziraphale kissed him, and busied himself with buttering another couple of slices. 

Crowley, for possibly the first time in years, did what he was told with no protest. Is this what Greta had meant by his sternness? Crowley felt like he had just been read the riot act[1], but in the nicest way possible. He drank his tea, waiting for Aziraphale to sit down with his toast, which he had slathered in butter and marmalade. Crowley didn't feel hungry, but knew that if he didn't try eating, he wouldn't hear the last of it. 

He managed most of a slice before admitting defeat. He watched Aziraphale casually eat his two slices, admiring the joy in his face as he took each bite. He couldn't help but forgive the indignity of being required to struggle with food so early in the morning. After a few more kisses, he headed off for a quick shower in the ancient, hard water-stained bathroom. 

Once Crowley was out (and making a point to walk around in nothing but a towel),

Aziraphale blushed but looked a little pleased with himself. "I have something for you to remember me by today..."

"Oh?" Crowley grabbed him by the waist and pulled him close. The sensation of the old, dusty velvet against his bare skin electrified him. 

Aziraphale took a small tupperware container out from behind his back. "Lunch."

Crowley could tell that he’d enjoyed teasing him. "Oh. That's much less fun than I was thinking."

"Take it," Aziraphale replied. 

"No one else brings in sandwiches!"

"No one else collapsed a couple of weeks ago because they can't manage to eat daily," Aziraphale replied, gently stroking a lock of hair out of his face.

"But everyone will think I'm poor!" Crowley whined.

"No they won't," Aziraphale tutted. "They will think you have some sandwiches."

Crowley didn't have a reply for that one. "Fine. I'll take them," he pouted. 

"Thank you dearest," Aziraphale replied, kissing him on the cheek.

Crowley, not one to be defeated easily, said, " I'll take sandwiches, but you need to sort out your bank account this week." Aziraphale froze solid, and his eyes glazed over. _Oh Satan,_ Crowley thought, _this again. Every single time._ He hugged the shorter man and said, "You've been putting it off for ages. At least book the appointment."

"I don't think this is a fair exchange," muttered Aziraphale.

"Yes it is," insisted Crowley, before checking his watch. "Oh, I really need to get going. Book that appointment!"

*

Whatever Crowley was expecting when he got into Chambers, it wasn't to have another table shoved into his room, and a large whiteboard blocking the way to his bookshelves.

On the white board was written

_Tenancy: Battle Royal!**[2]**_

_The Antichrist - 2/11_

_Wiz-arse - 11/9_

_Angry SJW - 3/1_

_Old Newt - 9/1_

_Only one can win! _

Crowley grabbed a pen, rubbed out the exclamation mark with his finger, and added the missing 'e'. 

As he did so, a young woman and a lanky, disaffected boy walked in. 

"What’s all this about?" he snapped, turning around.

"We're pupils[3]." The girl looked him up and down. "Who're you meant to be?"

"This is my room!" Crowley said.

"I thought you were sick?"

"Not anymore! And what have you done to my room?"

Anathema appeared at the door, grinning with amusement. "Welcome back, Crowley," she said, suppressing a giggle. "We didn't know when you'd be back, so I turned this into the pupils’ room."

"Welcome back? What kind of a welcome is this?" His eyes drifted to the peace lily sitting on the ledge of the window. "_No, no, no_!" he roared, grabbing the plant and cradling it in his arms like a baby.

A man with a pleasant, open face walked in, and put a cardboard box on the table. "Good morning! Anthony, I presume? I'm Newton Pulsifer..."

"_That's Mr Crowley to you!"_ he growled. "Which one of you idiots put my lily in direct sunlight?"

"Oh, the plant?" Newton said casually. “Plants need sunlight, right?"

"Not peace lilies! You don't put them in direct sunlight, _you never put them in direct sunlight!_" Crowley grabbed a browning leaf and pointing it at Newton shouted, "look what you've done to her!"

"It looks fine..."

"_Her. Leaves. Are. Brown._ She is not fine! How dare you move her!”

“He was only trying to help…” interrupted the young woman.

Crowley looked as if he was about to explode, then with a deep breath said, "I cannot deal with any of you right now. I'm going out for a smoke."

Crowley put the peace lily on his desk and stormed outside for a smoke. If there was one thing he’d barely indulged in over the last couple of weeks, it was smoking. Aziraphale didn't like it. Oh, he'd said nothing about it, but he didn't go out with him when he took smoke breaks, and he did tend to give him a certain look when he came back in from a smoke...he missed him already.

Crowley only vaguely noticed a young man with a mop of chestnut hair sit down next to him. "Hey, do you have a spare?"

"Sure." Crowley held out his pack and waited for the man to take it. 

"Thanks." The boy took it gratefully, and lit up. After they'd both taken a puff he said, "Can I ask you a question?"

"Sure."

"Are you Anthony J Crowley?"

Crowley shifted uncomfortably at his full name being used "What if I am?" he replied, circumspectly.

"I've heard about you," said the young man. Crowley looked a little put out, so the young man explained, "I've just started pupillage here."

"Well done," Crowley replied.

They fell silent again. Then, tentatively, the young man said, "you did ten years at the Criminal Bar before joining this set, right?"

"For my sins, yes." Crowley sighed. 

"I was hoping you'd be my pupil master,[4]" the young man said. "You've got quite a reputation here."

"I've not done the training," Crowley said, "so that was never a risk for you. Who do you have?"

"Beelzebub," he replied.

"Oh, she's good." Crowley smiled. "She's as hard as nails, but she'll look after you. They must have high hopes for you."

"You could say that," the boy replied. "I never wanted to do Commercial Bar. I wanted to do Criminal Bar work. But my dad made me take this pupillage."

"Your dad is a wise man." Crowley finished his cigarette. "I got out of the Criminal Bar, and let me tell you, my life is ten times better. It's horrible work. You probably think it's all saving the innocent and putting the worst of the world away, right? Having the magic words to make justice happen, like a righteous Angel of Law? Turns out it's more like having your soul stripmined by Satan's huge, barbed, horsecock, and then him using what remains of you as a jizz bottle." He stood up, and said, "Oh, this job will hollow you out as well, but at least you won't be woken up in the middle of the night by the bastard you defended yesterday, trying to nick your laptop from your cupboard you can barely afford on the Holloway Road. And you won't have to beg anyone for bus fare. Fuck, you'll be able to afford to drink yourself stupid on good wine."

"So, it's a good life," the young man joked.

Crowley sighed again. "It's a life." Crowley started on a second cigarette. "What's your name, kid?"

"Adam Young," he replied.

"You seen the odds on the board? I'd hate to be up against the Antichrist."

Adam looked embarrassed. "That's me."

"What?"

"My dad is Lucius Santos. Well, he's sort of my dad." Adam helped himself to another cigarette and said, "Dads don't wait until you're eleven to turn up."

"I never knew my dad," replied Crowley, thoughtfully. "Pretty glad of it. Knowing my luck I probably defended him once. If I did, I hope I did a bad job."

Adam laughed. "Luci says that you're a dickhead. Well, actually he said that you are like a psychotic terrier who bites everyone."

Crowley laughed. "That's the cleaned-up version, I think."

"It is." Adam smiled. 

"Stick to that." Crowley smiled back.

"Have you met the rest of us?" Adam asked.

"Yes. That idiot with the glasses moved my peace lily." Crowley exhaled smoke and muttered, "Prick."

"Oh, Newton? He's actually really nice."

"Lowest odds on the board, though."

"He's not very bright," Adam replied. "Well, maybe he is. It's hard to tell. Got firsts in all his exams, but can't send an email without something going wrong."

"Christ. Who's he got? As a pupil master?"

"Dagon."

"Fuck. She'll eat him alive."

Adam grinned.

"And the boy with the face like a slapped arse?"

"Oh, Warlock, he's a prick. Proper posh, his parents were the American Ambassadors or something."

"Who's he got?"

"Hastur."

Crowley let out a loud, dirty laugh. "Oh God, Hastur will kill him before he's finished his first six[5]!"

"Yeah, he seems pretty bad."

"Appearances aren't deceiving. Never met a bigger bigot who's also a silk[6]. How he manages to keep his scandals under the radar, I'll never know. And the girl?"

"Pepper? Been one of my best friends since school."

"Who’s she with?"

"Ligur."

"Oh, they trying to knock the edges off her?"

"Dunno. Why?"

"Great bloke. But a bit of a chameleon. He knows how he needs to play it here. At the Bar, I mean. If you aren't a white public-school boy at the Bar, you have to be very careful to be as successful as he is."

"Oh." replied Adam.

"It's not exactly a cakewalk when you're not the son of the head of Chambers," Crowley replied, "even back in my day." He looked at Adam and said quietly, "Does your dad know you smoke?"

"Are you going to tell him?" asked Adam.

"No. But it'll be nice having a smoking buddy who's not Hastur." Crowley looked around, and saw Beelzebub walking towards them. "Oh, here comes trouble..."

"Finally, the prodigal shit returns," Beelzebub shouted, "already causing trouble! Adam, go upstairs, I need to talk to this ginger Twiglet."

Once Adam left, Beelzebub hissed, "Give me one. The pupils are driving me round the bend already."

Crowley, who had been expecting a bollocking, obliged. Beelzebub happily inhaled and said, "No more after this. But I did want to _'check in'_ with you." The words ‘check in’ sounded like foreign words she was pronouncing phonetically. "Anathema said you collapsed the other week."

"Yeah... it was a bit scary at the time, but I'm much better now." Crowley said quickly, hating the creeping sense of vulnerability.

"Do you know what happened?" she asked.

"Oh, I was just pushing myself a bit hard," he replied, wanting this conversation to be over as quickly as possible. "Had a few days without much sleep or food and I sort of keeled over."

Beelzebub rolled her eyes. "For fuck’s sake Crowley, of course you fucking collapsed! People talk, and we've all seen you do those all-nighters, and the way you live on cigarettes and coffee. That sort of thing might look cute in a new tenant, but you're 42! You can't live like that without something having to give!"

"I know that I need to take better care of myself," Crowley said quietly, thinking of Aziraphale, and knowing how much he'd worry if he knew exactly what Crowley was like. 

"Alright, fine, we got that bit over with. Just have to check, is everything all right at home? Not got into drugs or anything stupid like that?"

"What?"

"Well, you've been a bit off for weeks now. And spending less time in Chambers. Thought you might be doing drugs or something."

Crowley laughed. "Trust me, unless you count tea as a drug, I have not been taking drugs."

"So why are you spending so much time away from Chambers?"

"I...just found a quieter place to work," Crowley replied, "Chambers can be a complete circus sometimes and I was finding it hard to concentrate."

Beelzebub seemed content with the answer. "Okay, but next time you've got too much on, the answer isn't to hole up away from Chambers. The answer is to say you've got too much on and when you think it'll quieten down, so clients can be managed." She patted him on the arm, in a fashion that would have been comforting from someone else. "Oh yes, almost forgot!" She pulled some papers out of her pocket and hit him with them.

"Ow! What's that for!" Crowley cried.

"That's for causing everyone to worry about you, you arsehole!" She hit him again, "And that's for all the extra work we had to parcel out because you can't say no!" She hit him one final time around the head, "And that's for making me say something nice about you! You're still in the doghouse with me! Just be glad that you're a different sort of fuckwit from the rest of us." 

Crowley grinned ecstatically. 

"Now get out of my sight! I don't have anything else for you. If Anathema doesn't have anything for you, you can go home."

Crowley grinned to himself. Aside from the infestation of tiny children in his room, today was turning out well. He might even have time to head back to the bookshop, and tempt Aziraphale to a spot of lunch. 

He wandered back in, and headed to Anathema's office. He saw that new kid...Newton Pulsifer? leave her office with another box of papers, and speed up his walk as he saw Crowley go by. 

Anathema closed the door behind them, and leaning on her desk, looked gleeful. "So... Crowley...Angel's been messaging with me since he came into Chambers and..." she giggled with joy, "Oh my God, are you two dating now?"

Crowley looked horrified. "What's he told you?" 

"He's told me that you've kissed, and held hands, and that he is utterly head over heels for you." She smiled and said, "Okay, he didn't say that last bit exactly, but it's obvious."

"When's he had time to message with you?" Crowley asked. "We've been...busy."

"When you've been asleep." Anathema smiled, "I've asked for updates on how you're doing. You've slept a lot. Angel say's that you're cute when you nap."

Crowley looked a little embarrassed. "You fucking witch."

She beamed. "Wellness Officer."

"More like a Nosy Officer," he replied, and whispered "Does anyone else know?"

"About being cute when you nap?"

"No. I mean about Aziraphale and..."

"No," she said simply.

"Good. Stick with that."

"But you have to tell me everything!" She giggled. "He's too buttoned up to tell me anything, but when he was here we had a bit of a fight..."

"He never told me that." A shadow crossed his face.

"It doesn't matter. No one heard," Anathema replied. "And maybe I kinda pushed him on the whole being gay thing."

"Oh," Crowley said, as if he understood.

"It's always been an open secret, y'know. We even posed as a couple once, when his family was getting suspicious."

"Oh," Crowley said, with a flush of jealousy.

"Oh, don't be like that." Anathema scoffed. "They didn't want us doing anything, they just wanted to think that he's straight. Frankly, they scared me. I felt like I was being judged the whole time. It was super weird. They’ve got that cold, calculating niceness thing going on where you know if you upset them, you’ll end up getting hurt. And he was so scared the whole time…”

Crowley adjusted his sunglasses. “Scared?”

“Yeah…I think that’s why he’s so, y’know, in the closet. He’s so scared about what they’ll do. Anyway, I never thought I'd ever say this, but thank you Crowley." She hugged him. "He's so happy."

Crowley felt very uncomfortable, but tried to pat her back, saying, "My pleasure?"

Then, as if remembering herself, she let him go, leaned on her desk, and pushed her glasses up her face. "I mean, obviously he could do much better than you, and I can't possibly see what he sees in you, but if you can make him open up enough to let your skinny ass in, I'll take it."

"Aaaaa, you like me!"

"No I don't."

"Yes you doooo," he replied. "You think I'm a _good influence_!"

'Don't push it." Anathema smiled. "Maybe you’re good bad, not evil. Maybe. Which reminds me. Housekeeping." She grabbed him by the lapels of his suit, and hissed, "If you ever, ever, ever hurt him, I will track you down, kill you, cut up your body and feed you to the seals in the Thames. You understand?”

Crowley raised an eyebrow. "Did Aziraphale tell you about the seals?" he asked conspiratorially.

She let him go. "Yes! He was so excited!"

Crowley burst out laughing. "He's been so excited since he found out that the seals in the Thames had loads of pups this year[7]! He wants me to go seal watching with him!"

"You couldn't stand still long enough!" She laughed. 

"I know!" Crowley laughed, "but I'll try. For him."

Anathema smiled. "You're still the biggest jerk I've ever had to deal with!"

"And you're still a witch who nags me," he replied, with a grin. "Which reminds me, do I have any briefs back?"

*

Crowley managed to escape Chambers and head back to the shop before the Sun set. 

Aziraphale opened the door to the shop, and found himself being held by his chin, and kissed passionately. As they broke apart, Crowley asked, "How was your day?"

"A bit dull," Aziraphale smiled, "just more cataloguing. Not as much fun without a certain someone to distract me." Aziraphale kissed him gently on the lips. "How about you, dear heart?"

Crowley walked into the shop and said, "Good, actually. I was expecting a surround sound bollocking, but aside from a bunch of 12 year olds[8] being moved into my room, it was... actually nice."

"12 year olds?" asked Aziraphale.

"Oh, pupils," Crowley explained as he took off his jacket and hung it on the coat rack, "Vying for tenancy. That said, it's a done deal, as the son of the head of Chambers is there. The other poor sods should go home."

"Is that allowed?" asked Aziraphale, as he slid his arms around Crowley's slim waist.

"Probably not," Crowley sighed, kissing the top of Aziraphale's head, "but it's the way of the world, innit?"

They held each other for a moment, enjoying the sensation of being together, until Crowley said, "I didn't know you'd told Anathema about us."

Aziraphale broke the embrace, and suddenly looked worried, "Oh dear, I should have told you really. I did rather lose my temper with her when I took your papers in, and I felt so awful I ended up explaining..." Aziraphale met Crowley's eyes for a moment and said, "...us." Aziraphale looked away again. "I hope it didn't cause any problems."

Crowley put his hands on Aziraphale's shoulders and said, "It didn't, but I wish I'd known. It was a bit of a shock."

"Oh dear..." Aziraphale looked worried again.

"It's okay. But tell me in the future," Crowley said, kissing him on the cheek. "I'd tell the whole world about us, but I know neither of us are quite ready for that." Aziraphale nodded, and slipped his arms around Crowley again, pulling him close to his plush, soft body. Crowley sunk into the embrace and said, "Angel, how the hell are you so ridiculously tempting? I could ravish you right here..."

"I suspect it's the demon controlling your mind, telling you that I'm even remotely attractive," Aziraphale said, self-deprecatingly.

"Well, I would like to give that demon a commendation for his good work, as I find you incredibly, amazingly attractive." Crowley felt a frenzy rising, ready to tear Aziraphale's clothes off, and have him then and there. Instead he attempted to control himself by placing his head on Aziraphale's shoulder, and said, "Do you want to try that cheese restaurant[9] in Covent Garden this evening? Then tootle back here afterwards?"

Aziraphale looked very conflicted for a moment, as if performing a very complicated formula in his head, before saying "I think…that would be for the best.”

Crowley kissed him again, showing him that he understood. “That sounds perfect.”

[1] To read someone the Riot Act is a phrase I understand isn’t used much outside England, but essentially means to tell someone off sternly and inform them how they ought to behave instead. There is also the implication that if the warning is ignored, the person is in a lot of trouble. It refers to a 1715 statute which, when read out, warned that that group needed to disperse or be imprisoned.

[2] This entire joke is <strike>stolen</strike> <strike>plagiarised</strike> reworked from the BBC sitcom ‘Defending the Guilty’, which I recommend if you have time. Has some very good British swearing in it, as well as being a good introduction to some of the problems the Bar faces.

[3] Trainee barristers are called pupils, and the practical part of their training, akin to an apprenticeship, is known as ‘pupillage’. More info in a future footnote, you lucky people!

[4] Technically the term has changed to Pupil Supervisor, but good luck getting people to stop calling themselves a Pupil Master once they’ve started.

[5] Okay, pupillages are 12 months in duration. The first six months is known as a first six, and is ‘non-practising’, which basically means the pupil shadows their master/supervisor in court and does research and paperwork, but does not actually represent any clients in court. During the second six, the pupil is able to represent clients in court, although whether they do much representation depends on the set they’re at and whether there are any suitable ‘beginner’ cases.

[6] ‘Silk’ is another term for Queens Counsel, coming from the fact that their gowns are generally made of silk rather than wool, i.e ‘to take silk.’

[7] This is a real, actual thing and makes me SO happy! <https://www.theguardian.com/environment/2019/sep/02/river-thames-home-to-138-baby-seals-latest-count-finds>

[8] Your humble author is now at the age where everyone under the age of 30 is simultaneously 12, and whatever their real age is.

[9] This is also a real thing, but not been able to get a seat yet. <https://www.thecheesebar.com/seven-dials/>

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Woot! Please let me know if I need to add anything to the footnotes, because I realise that a lot of the British Legal system is a hot mess, and I'm not sure I've managed to explain very much. 
> 
> I'm also over at https://www.tumblr.com/blog/bouncygin, so come and say hi! I mostly re-blog, but I will experiment with real posts soon.
> 
> In the meantime, please leave a comment! I do get excited for them, and they do help me plot everything out, and see where I need to add stuff and so on. As per usual with my aneurotypical brain, there has been a bit of mission creep with the plot, so it all helps me stop writing two pages about how much I love some random band and actually get on with the story!


	8. I wouldn't normally do this kind of thing

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> So, this chapter is named after a Pet Shop Boy song, so consider that the unofficial sound track to this chapter. 
> 
> Chapter Specific Content Warnings:
> 
> **Bad Language, slut shaming, excessive use of footnotes and brit-splaining **

Chapter 8 -

Crowley had spent the evening in a pleasant haze; he'd sat at the conveyor belt, lights low and soft, watching Aziraphale trying cheese after cheese with exquisite passion. The music was too loud, but that simply meant that they had to sit very close together to hear each other. 

He adored how excited he was about each cheese, explaining why it was paired with chocolate, or stewed berries, or a jelly, and that look of pleasure in the moment he tasted it, and those small sounds of pleasure that short-circuited his brain.

Crowley watched from behind his sunglasses, sipping a rather charming Beaujolais and occasionally taking a bite of the incredibly posh grilled cheese sandwich. He surreptitiously tried to pull out the caramelised onions whilst Aziraphale eyed up the next cheese to try. 

Once Aziraphale had his fill of cheeses, Crowley tried to convince him that a dessert was in order, but found that the wine had dulled his advocacy skills. Instead they headed back to the shop, occasionally stopping under the shimmering streetlamps to snog[1] like teenagers, and, eventually, made it up the stairs and into bed where they collapsed in a happy warm heap. 

Crowley felt so happy that his heart might fall out of his chest. He thought he'd known happiness before, such as the day he bought the Bentley, and the first time he took her for a drive, but this...this was something very new. Nothing, absolutely nothing, compared with the happy, warm glow of being near Aziraphale. Even something so simple as being able to kiss his rosy round cheeks, or hold his soft, pudgy hand, or run his fingers through those soft white curls, made him feel such a rush of joy that it was almost impossible for his body to process it all. Putting an arm around Aziraphale's gently rounded waist or seeing Aziraphale giggle at his expression overwhelmed him, like a cup underneath a waterfall. 

*

Newton Pulsifer was utterly horrified to find Crowley in the pupils’ room, leaning back on his chair, intently reading a contract.

"Err...Mr Crowley," he managed to croak out.

Crowley looked up, and gave him a look of mild annoyance, before it softened. "Oh, it's you. Dagon's kid."

"I.. I'm her pupil," he corrected.

"Newton, isn't it?" Crowley asked, putting the contract down.

"Err...yes," he replied awkwardly.

"I apologise for yesterday," Crowley sighed. "You caught me at a bad moment."

"Oh." Newton shifted slightly. "I'm sorry about your plant."

"She'll be fine," Crowley said, "Eventually." They were silent for a little bit too long before Crowley asked, motioning to the whiteboard, "What do you think of all this?"

"Oh, the odds! That's just a bit of fun!" Newton laughed nervously. 

"You know who would have fed these odds to the tenants? Dagon."

"Well, it's only been a week. It's just first impressions."

"Well, you only get one first impression," replied Crowley, "You'll learn that when you're a bit older. How old are you, 12?"

"35," replied Newton. The awkward silence resumed. 

"Bit old for all this..." Crowley started, tentatively.

"I wanted a career change. I used to work in computers. Well, not in computers, near computers. Very computer adjacent."

Crowley raised an eyebrow. 

"...I worked in sales," Newton explained, shamefaced. 

"And you thought, one day, _well, maybe this law lark is worth a go_?"

"Yes." 

Crowley couldn't see an ounce of insincerity in his face. He wasn't sure if Newton was stupid, or in complete denial of the mountainous climb he had before him. It could be both, he mused. 

"You look like a nice person. Why aren't you doing something less dangerous, like joining the army, _and don't you dare give me the answer you put in your application."_

Newton smiled a painful smile. "I'd quite like to move out of my parents’ house. And maybe travel a bit."

Crowley laughed. "Well, at least you'll do the first bit. The pupillage award[2] here is pretty substantial."

Newton looked a bit embarrassed. "I know, but I'm still skint until next month. Student loans kicking in, and I had to buy my robes, wig[3], new suits, training ticket from Reading, Dick Turpin needed an MOT[4]..."

"Oh, it's called Dick Turpin..."

"...Because it always holds up traffic." Newton chuckled at his own joke. Then, checking his bag, he said, "Oh...sugar. I forgot my lunch!"

Crowley couldn't help but feel sorry for him. If only because he was a 35 year old man saying _sugar_. "Look, I have some sandwiches. Do you want them?" He chuckled the lunchbox at Newton, who entirely failed to catch it. 

"Thanks," said Newton, picking the box off the floor, "I really appreciate it..."

Then, from outside, they heard Dagon, in a sing-song tone shout, "Pulllllsiferr." She put her head around the door, and purred, "Mummy wants her coffee before we head to court!"

"C...could you not call yourself that?" Newton asked, "I'm pretty sure we're the same age..."

"You're my pupil, so I'm your mummy at law." She shoved a travel mug into his hand. "And mummy needs her coffee."

Newton left quickly. Dagon stepped in, and sat on Crowley's desk. "Good to see you back, Crowley."

"Pleasure's all mine." He tried to go back to the contract, but Dagon placed a long, pink fingernail on the papers, pulling them down.

"Don't be like that. I missed your angry face. I heard you had a fit or something."

"I didn't have a fit. Who was even saying I had a fit? I just overworked myself and needed to take some time off."

"It catches up with you, doesn't it?" She smiled conspiratorially. "Barely seen you around for ages."

"Maybe because I keep getting distracted around here," he growled.

"Do you find me distracting?" she asked, leaning over the desk.

"Don't you have court this morning?" Crowley asked, looking back at his papers.

"Ugh, you're no fun!" she exclaimed, sitting upright. As she slid off the desk, she said, "But you know that my door is always open, if it all gets a bit much here. Just to talk." 

She was walking out when Crowley said, "Dagon?" She turned around. "Don't shit where you eat. He seems like a sweet boy."

She rolled her eyes. "Oh please. I'd rather do Hastur." She mimed vomiting.

Crowley grinned to himself. "Glad to hear it."

"Remember. My door is open, even if you just need to talk." She gave him a look that implied he was also welcome if he wanted more. 

Crowley went back to his papers, but couldn't help smiling at her twisted, unhealthy version of concern. 

As he concentrated, he found himself absentmindedly kicking his shoes off and tucked his legs underneath himself, as he reached for his laptop. 

"Oh, you're here," said an unfamiliar American accent. 

He looked up and saw a sullen young man with long brown hair that might have made him look like an emo kid, if he hasn't been in full court dress, minus the wig. Instead he looked like an extra in Harry Potter. And decidedly uncomfortable.

  
"So you're the Wiz-arse of Brimstone Chambers?" Crowley asked, enjoying how angry it made Warlock.

"Better to be a wizard than a fainting snake," Warlock spat back.

Despite the joke not being very good, Crowley laughed. "You need better material, but you'll go far with that attitude."

Warlock smiled behind his long fringe of hair. "Thanks man. How's the plant?"

"She's better," Crowley replied, "As long as that idiot never touches her again."

"Make sure you never lend him your laptop," Warlock warned. "My dad had to buy me a new one after Pulsifer had it for an hour."

"What did he do to it?"

"I dunno! But I lost all my files. I don't even know how. I can't even get into my Dropbox. Whatever he did, he messed it up pretty good."

"Thanks for the warning." Crowley said, unconsciously gripping his laptop. "Where's Hastur?"

"He's getting his papers," Warlock replied, gloomily.

"Is that why you're all dressed up and nowhere to go?" asked Crowley, grinning ear to ear.

Warlock rolled his eyes. "I'm gonna learn so much about pulling bags and filling."

There was a heavy rumbling along the hallway, the old floorboards complaining loudly. 

"Oh bloody hell," Crowley said, and then putting his feet back on the table yelled, "Oi! Hastur! You know the courts are trying to go paperless? How many trees did you chop down for that lot?"

Hastur appeared at the door, filling the room with the smell of burnt tobacco, lager and faeces. "I heard you were back, you wilting pansy."

Crowley did not like admitting that Hastur had got under his skin. "Lovely to see you too. Slept with anyone the same age as your daughter recently?"

Hastur gave him a look of disgust. "In my day, barristers used to work hard. You never gave a case back unless you were done with it. Not faint on a bloody couch because you got a bit tired, and expect everyone to pick up for you."

"No, now you just devil[5] everything and spend all day sexting your child bride." 

"She's 28, you ginger maggot," Hastur hissed. He turned to Warlock and barked, "Dowling! This is why I keep telling you to get your bloody hair cut! Otherwise you'll look like this poof. We better get going."

"Bye Hastur. Try not to get a paper cut on that bundle!" He listened as the two men left the building, the floorboards complaining the whole time. 

*

_Dear Aziraphale,_

_I feel like it's been an age since I last emailed you! It's all been rather exciting in Hungary, I’ve managed to find a copy of the Bible of Vizsoly, which has some very interesting mis-prints, and absolutely beautiful edition of Szigeti Veszedelum. I think we should have a few takers for these soon, so I’ll be having them shipped to the shop, with a case of Tokay for your trouble._

_Maybe you should share a bottle with that lovely Mr Crowley you’ve told me about, and see if he was ever a dog in a past life? I’m very glad to hear that you’ve found a companion for the shop as it can be quite lonely sometimes. I hope he has recovered from that illness you told me about._

_I myself have found a rather interesting companion for part of my journey; an ex-army sergeant who is apparently researching the history of witchcraft across Europe. A very odd gentleman, but has been very entertaining company for dinner once convinced to have a glass of wine. Doesn’t know much Hungarian, though, so he doesn’t know that the staff have been calling him őrmester boszorkánykereső (Sergeant witchfinder) behind his back. _

_He has offered to go to Transylvania with me, as he is convinced that there is some sort of magic energy there to which witches are drawn. _

_I’m hoping to be back for Christmas! I’ll keep you updated as soon as I know more._

_Much love,_

_Madam Tracey_

*

Crowley went back to his work, and didn't notice that several hours had passed until he heard Ligur knock at his door. 

He stood there, grinning like he knew something Crowley didn't. "I'm taking Pepper to the Chattering Nun for lunch. Do you want to join us?"

Crowley looked up, and felt himself phasing back into his body. He sat there, and noticed that he was actually quite tired. And he was...hungry? Maybe? He wasn't entirely sure. Certainly lunch sounded like a good idea. 

"Yeah, sure," he said, saving his work and powering down his laptop.

"Good. How are you finding it, back in this hellhole?" Ligur asked.

"Not bad. Still easing myself in, as much as I can."

"Miss us?"

"Barely." Crowley laughed. 

"Had anyone to look after you?" asked Ligur

"Ligur, I spent most of the last two weeks asleep!" Crowley exclaimed. "Unless you count Deliveroo drivers, and I don't because I'm not Dagon, I haven't seen anyone."

"Oh, I'm surprised. Didn't you have a sushi friend a few weeks ago?"

"Ligur, don't you know it's rude to cross examine outside court?" Crowley said, warningly. 

Ligur changed the subject. "Pepper is a very bright, forthright girl. I thought I'd get her to talk to you, as a warning."

"Warning of what?"

"What happens when you can't hold your tongue."

Crowley laughed. "A warning to the curious?"

"What?" 

"Forget it."

They made the short walk to the Chattering Nun with only occasional attempts at small talk. 

Pepper was already there, sitting at a table and scrolling on her phone. She looked up as Ligur approached, her eyes widening as she realised that he was flanked by Crowley. 

"Pepper, this is Anthony Crowley..."

"We've met," she said sullenly. 

"Yeah, sorry about that," said Crowley, "Someone had moved my peace lily."

Ligur burst out laughing. "Crowley, what did you do? Should I be checking under the floorboards for a body?"

Crowley turned red, for once embarrassed by an outburst. "No, no, it's fine now."

"How's the plant?" Pepper asked.

"She'll be okay. Eventually." He turned to Ligur, "I just lost my temper."

"He hugged the plant and screamed at Pulsifer," Pepper grinned.

Ligur's laughter started again. " I'm surprised he's still alive!"

"We've had words," said Crowley, far more circumspectly than usual. "As long as he never touches my peace lily again, we can get along."

*

"Oh, what have you got there, Pulsifer?" asked Dagon as she saw him getting a lunchbox out of his bag.

"Oh, err..." He lifted up one of the slices of thick, hand-cut farmhouse bread, "looks like goat’s cheese and ham. With rocket."

"That sounds nice."

Newton took a bite. "Oh...Om...it has a spicy chutney as well," he said, talking with his mouth full. 

"Next time, bring enough for both of us," she purred.

"Oh, these aren't mine," said Newton, "Mr Crowley gave me them."

Dagon suddenly felt very confused. "Crowley?" she asked.

Newton nodded in the affirmative. 

Crowley was infamous in chambers for his inability to eat like an adult, let alone with any sort of regularity. And no amount of illness would suddenly make him like goat’s cheese. Dagon was suddenly very suspicious.

*

_Dear Madam Tracey,_

_Thank you for your last email. I was terrified that you may have been carried off by a _ _Nachtkrapp for a while there. I still remember Mama and you trying to convince me that it was real to make me stay in bed. Is the _ _Bible of Vizsoly all in Hungarian? I could never get my head around the Uralic languages. If it’s in Latin I can give it a fair shot. _

_Your Sergeant Shadwell sounds like a character. I fear to know what would happen if he ever sits in on one of your seances or witnesses one of your card readings! Your knack for the supernatural has always fascinated me. _

_In other news, Mr Crowley has recovered nicely from his illness. He returned yesterday, and from all accounts did very well. _

_If you are back by Christmas, I would very much like you to meet him. He has a sort of devilishness that I think you would find very enjoyable. _

_I hope you and Sergeant Shadwell have a good time in Transylvania,_

_With love and fondness,_

_Aziraphale. _

*

"And so it's one in the morning, and everyone in college[6] is at the bop[7], and when I leave the Junior Common Room[8], who do I find? This bastard, in his pyjamas, leaving the library!" Ligur laughed over his plate of sausage and mash. 

"I was working on an essay," Crowley smiled, picking at a bowl of fat-cut chips with his fingers.

"...and he's all 'oh, I'm working while you party, so I can do better than you posh knobs'..."

"...I was such a self-righteous prick," sighed Crowley.

"...and then we both hear _Don't Stop Me Now_ come on, and I swear, I have never seen anyone run so fast into a party in my life!"

"It's a great song!" He smirked. "I might have had a lot to prove back then, but it certainly wasn't how amazing Queen are."

"So this twat is dancing away, stone cold sober at one in the morning, and I suddenly think, maybe he's not as much of a dickhead as he is in supervisions[9], trying to 'own' everyone and going off on big long class rants like he's in Look Back in Anger[10]."

"I mean, you were wrong," Crowley added, "I am that big of a dickhead."

"You say that, but I lost my karma karma karma karma chameleon that night, and next supervision you turn up with it."

"I didn't realise you were going to chuck it anyway!" Crowley protested.

"Ugh, this whole thing is so Oxbridge," Pepper said, rolling her eyes and taking a sip of her pint of orange and lemonade.

"Yup," replied Crowley, taking a drink, "Welcome to the profession."

"Are you all like this?" Pepper asked, dipping her bread into her tomato soup (the only thing on the menu that was even possibly vegan).

"Oh no," Ligur grinned, "Most are much, much worse."

Crowley's phone buzzed loudly. He pulled it out, and seeing that it was from Aziraphale, held it close to his body as he read it. 

_Hello dearest! Greta and Rose have two spare tickets for the Hamilton Musical tomorrow night. Would you like to come? XX_

Double X? He might as well be sexting. 

_Of course, Angel. See you tonight. Xxx_

He sent the message, and then, as an afterthought added

_Book your appointment with the bank!_

He barely noticed the smile that crept across his face. 

"What're you grinning about?" asked Ligur.

"Friend got us tickets to Hamilton," replied Crowley.

"Oh my God, Hamilton tickets! Those are so hard to get!" Pepper gasped.

"You hate musical theatre," said Ligur, a curious expression on his face. 

"I don't," said Crowley, as if he had said too much.

"You'll love it," said Pepper, "Even people who hate musicals love Hamilton. Have you listened to the soundtrack yet?"

"No,” replied Crowley, and determined to get away from Ligur's line of questioning asked, "Should I?"

"Yeah, if you can, it's so fast moving and dense it can be difficult to keep up if you don't," said Pepper. "And there is so much there! I am so excited for you!"

"So, I'm assuming you've been?" asked Crowley.

"Yeah, twice. But now I want to go again!"

"Maybe you should book some for the end of your first six? It's worth having something to look forward to." Crowley sipped his wine. "It's a steep learning curve after finishing Bar School."

"I'm adjusting," she said, "Although I've mainly been shadowing Ligur in court and getting coffee so far."

"It's allowed!" Ligur said, as Crowley gave him a look of amusement, "Plus, I was really busy last week, because a certain idiot was too exhausted to come in."

"Don't blame me if you're that sort of pupil master!" snickered Crowley. Then he pushed the half-finished bowl of chips away from himself, saying "Ugh, do either of you want the rest of these? I'm full."

*

Two days later, Dagon pulled Ligur aside in Chambers, saying, "Ligur, a word."

They slipped into Ligur's room, and Dagon closed the door with a click.

"What can I do to help you?" asked Ligur, in his best 'talking to clients' voice.

"You've been grinning like you shat somewhere secret since Crowley got back," she said, looking him in the eye, "And I want in."

"Well, I'm afraid I can't..."

"I saw him last night, in Victoria. He was with a man..."

"Let me guess," chuckled Ligur, "blonde curls, big guy..."

".... unfashionably dressed," Dagon gasped, "And they were holding hands..."

Ligur had an expression like a lizard that had just caught a fly. 

"You don't think..." Dagon gasped conspiratorially.

Ligur nodded. 

"Oooooooh! " Dagon's face expressed how much she was enjoying the scandal of it all, "Well I never! How long have you known?"

"Well, you know the day he got ill? That guy came in with his papers, and had a massive row with Anathema."

"You don't think..."

"Well, I'm not asking her. " Ligur would never admit it, but Anathema scared him slightly. 

"So she knows too..." Dagon smiled. "Any idea who this guy is?"

"Not a clue. But I think that's where he's been going to work for the last few weeks." 

"Ooooh. " Dagon thought for a moment and said, "I have to admit, I wouldn't have thought of him as Crowley's type."

"Opposites attract?" Ligur offered. 

As they giggled, they both sensed something change in the air. 

They heard it, through three floors of the building.

"Where the fuck is Ligur!" Beelzebub's scream reverberated through the building.

"What do you think...." Dagon trailed off, listening to heavy footsteps climb three flights of stairs, each stair squeaking in terror.

Then, the door slammed open. Beelzebub was a picture of pure fury.

"Ligur, you perfidious bastard, how long have you been sitting on the fact that Crowley has been representing Aziraphale Celeste?" 

**FOOTNOTES**

[1] _Snog_ – kissing, with an implication of cuddling and perhaps some light groping.

[2] The guaranteed wage a pupil gets during pupillage.

[3] Even second-hand wigs are about £300.00.

[4] The MOT test (Ministry of Transport, or simply MOT) is an annual test of vehicle safety, roadworthiness aspects and exhaust emissions required in the United Kingdom for most vehicles over three years old. How on earth Dick Turpin manages to pass it each year is unknown, and probably to do with the family curse a witch put on the Pulsifer family centuries ago.

[5] Deviling – yes, this is a real term. It’s when one barrister obtains the assistance of another, usually more junior, barrister to carry out work to help the first barrister in relation to a case.

[6] Cambridge has a college system, where each college is financially independent and self-governing, but relate to the central University in a kind of federal system.

[7] Oxbridge term for a college party. Because they can’t just call things normal names.

[8] A communal room for undergraduates to hang out in, often used for social functions as well. Because everything Oxbirdge has to remind you of hierarchy. 

[9] Small group sessions (groups between one and three students, generally) where you prepare an essay and discuss it with the supervisor. Generally you’d have one supervisor per module you study, so you’d get to meet loads of different experts in the field you’re studying, and have tutorials with loads of different students, generally from the same college as yourself (especially in the first year), but sometimes not if you choose a very obscure/undersubscribed optional module.

[10] One of the first, and most well-known/well-regarded of the kitchen sink drama play, a British cultural movement that developed in the late 1950s and early 1960s whose protagonists usually could be described as angry working class men who were disillusioned with modern society. The main character, Jimmy Porter, can best be described as a right bell-end.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Whoo! So, left everyone on a bit of cliffhanger there! If I can convince my husband to edit Chapter 9 before the weekend, I will, but I'm likely to be updating next Saturday. 
> 
> In the meantime, my tumbrl is https://bouncygin.tumblr.com/, please come over and say hello! 
> 
> Please leave a comment if you can!


	9. Hammer to Fall

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Okay everyone, hang onto your butts. We're about to get into some serious plot here. 
> 
> ** Chapter Specific Warnings**
> 
> ** Homophobia, internalised and externalised, transphobia, threats of violence, peril, lots of peril, bad Language (Would you expect anything less from me at this point?)**** **

The night before, Crowley met Aziraphale outside the Victoria Palace Theatre. 

"Sorry I'm late, got a bit caught up at Chambers." Crowley grabbed Aziraphale's hand, and gave it a squeeze. 

Aziraphale smiled back at him. "We've still got time to get drinks and sit down. Now, you've met Greta, but Rose, this is Anthony..."

Rose smiled at him, and nodded. She was a little taller than Greta, but a tad shorter than Aziraphale. She wore a 1940s-style victory suit, and her chestnut hair was set in perfect pincurls. "Lovely to meet you."

"Please, call me Crowley. No one calls me Anthony." 

"I knew you two were going out!" Greta blurted, pointing at their hands.

"Greta!" Rose hissed, clearly embarrassed.

"We're not going out," Aziraphale automatically added, pulling his hand out of Crowley’s, “However, we are very good friends.”

Crowley felt like he'd been shot through the heart, but tried not to let it show. "Yeah, good friends.”

"I think we should head in now," said Rose, checking the time on her phone. "We've got to get past security, get ourselves settled..."

"Security? For a play?" asked Crowley.

"Maybe they're expecting a second gunman?" Aziraphale smiled, squeezing Crowley's hand back. 

Luckily the queue was very short, and the checks rather cursory (Crowley did, perhaps, feel a pang of jealousy as the security guard patted Aziraphale down), and they made their way up the stairs past the bar for the stalls, full of braying men in suits, and past the bar for the grand circle, full to bursting with men in sweatervests and women in reproduction vintage clothes, and then to the Royal Circle. 

The tiny bar at the top was full of young people: groups of students in Hamilton t-shirts, and brightly dyed hair. A few of the girls were holding hands, boys exchanging quick kisses with each other, there were also groups of queer-looking teenagers, obviously up to London for the day, practically buzzing with excitement.

Crowley suddenly felt very old. He suspected Aziraphale and he were the oldest people in the room. Then, behind a group of black-clad 15 year olds, he saw a man who was clearly one of their dads. Their eyes met for a moment, and both clearly felt a little relieved. 

"Pass me a ticket," said Crowley, "I'll grab drinks, that bar is mobbed. What do you want?"

"Err, cheapest white wine on the menu please," said Greta[1].

"I'll have that too," said Rose. 

"Angel, white wine as well?"

"Sure." He smiled with little conviction. 

Crowley grabbed the ticket out of Rose's hand, and said," I'll meet you inside."

"Dearest, do you want a programme?" asked Aziraphale, letting go of his hand.

"Uh, sure," Crowley replied, suddenly in need of a drink.

They shuffled out of the room, and Crowley battled his way towards the bar. After what felt like an eternity, he got to the bar, and grabbed a menu.

Cheapest white wine? He'd rather drown. After scanning the menu ordered four glasses of the most expensive, and booked two bottles for the interval, for good measure. 

He balanced the plastic glasses against each other, and danced past the other patrons. He moved very carefully down the stairs to the appropriate row, where their seats were practically in the middle. He did take this moment to admire Aziraphale, the way the small seats forced his belly forward, and how it luxuriously filled his lap. It was practically sinful how tempting he looked, with the way his stomach curved gently round, pressing pleasingly against the buttons of his velvet waistcoat. 

Crowley snaked past the seated patrons, stepping over bags and coats, until he reached his seat. Aziraphale gratefully grabbed three of the plastic glasses from his precarious grip, and passed them down the seats to Rose and Greta. Crowley tried to slump into his seat, but there wasn't quite enough leg room. Instead he sat hunched over, feeling a bit sheepish. 

"With a minute to spare!" said Aziraphale approvingly.

"Yeah, bit of a queue," Crowley sniffed, "But I've booked us drinks for the interval."

"Oh, how much do we owe you, Crowley?" asked Greta, opening her handbag.

"Don't worry about it." Crowley said casually, "My treat."

"That's very kind of you, Crowley," smiled Rose.

"Really, don't worry about it. It's not like I'm not working."

The lights in the theatre dimmed. Crowley took off his sunglasses, and reached for Aziraphale's hand. Aziraphale's fingers curled around his as the music started:

_"How does a bastard, orphan, son of a whore and a Scotsman, dropped in the middle of a forgotten spot in the Caribbean by providence, impoverished, in squalor, grow up to be a hero and a scholar?"_

*

They left quickly afterwards (Greta had work in the morning, and the wine had gone to her head, so Rose had put her foot down about going home) and caught the Victoria line to Oxford Circus.

They stood, holding onto the handrails, Aziraphale with his back to the door and Crowley standing in front, their bodies close as they chatted animatedly.

"I'm just saying," Crowley felt the tube jolt him slightly, so he semi-fell into Aziraphale, and felt himself brush up against his belly, "That you can tell he was a lawyer."

"He made some very foolish decisions!" Aziraphale argued back, slightly swaying. "What about that ridiculous pamphlet admitting he'd had an affair?"

"That's exactly what I mean," replied Crowley, "Only a lawyer would think that the public would forgive cheating on your wife over embezzlement. The cheating on your wife? That's personal business, and there's ways to spin that, possibly even turn it into a personal brand, but embezzlement? Embezzlement is criminal. You might not do jail time over it, but there's no way to spin it. After that, good luck finding anyone to hire you, or get banks to loan you money, or get clients. People can forgive affairs with consenting adults, but they won't forgive you ripping them off. I'd tell any client of mine to admit to hiring prostitutes and having an all-night sploshing session in their office over taking public money."

"I presume that wouldn't go so far as publishing a pamphlet, outlining exactly what sploshing is and why you enjoy it?" Aziraphale raised an eyebrow.

Crowley laughed, and replied, "No, but I'd tell them get media training and go on Graham Norton to talk about it."

Aziraphale giggled at the audacity of the statement, and as the tube pulled into the next station, allowed himself to fall into Crowley, and give him a quick peck on the lips. 

Crowley smiled and, foreheads touching, kissed Aziraphale back gently. They both giggled, high on lust and the naughtiness of being two fully grown men displaying affection on public transport like teenagers. 

And then they heard it. A cough followed by a gruff "Faggots!" A man sitting a few seats down leered at them, as everyone else on the train suddenly become very interested in their books, phones or feet. 

Aziraphale looked ashamed for a moment, then stepping away from Crowley, straightened his bow-tie, and pulled his waistcoat down.

Crowley, having drunk the best part of a bottle of white wine to himself, started to see red. He swung towards the man, and hissed, “You what, mate?”

The man stood up and tried to square up to Crowley, which was difficult not only due to his height, but also due to the fact that Crowley currently resembled some sort of trapezoid suspended by handrails. “I said _Faggot_, batty boy.”

“Crowley…” Aziraphale tugged at Crowley’s arm.

“Oh, your boyfriend want to join in too?”

“Crowley.” Aziraphale repeated, this time much more pointed.

“Do you want to shut your fucking mouth, m--ate?” Crowley growled.

“CROWLEY” Aziraphale grabbed him, pulling him backwards. Shocked, Crowley let go of the rails, and found himself being pulled off the carriage and though the maze of tunnels that make up Oxford Circus Station. Once they were in a quiet part, they both stopped, panting.

“What in Heaven’s name got into you?” hissed Aziraphale.

“He insulted us? Don’t you feel a little bit upset about that?”

There was a pause, before Aziraphale, his voice suddenly a little shaky, said, “It’s safer to turn the other cheek.”

“Safer? Safer?” Crowley grabbed Aziraphale by the lapels, and pushed him up against the wall, “Safe is a four-letter word. I’m not a safe person.” Aziraphale barely reacted, as Crowley, heart pumping in his ears, realised what he’d just done. “Oh…Oh I’m sorry…”

Aziraphale rested his head against the tilled wall, and said, “I’m not like you, Crowley. I know I've not lived a hard life, like you have, I know that compared to you I'm incredibly innocent and naive, but I have found that the one thing that has got me through is keeping quiet, and not upsetting anyone." Aziraphale felt the coldness of the tiles against his neck, and closed his eyes for a moment. "That fight wouldn’t have been worth it. You know it wouldn’t. At best you humiliate him, at worse one of you ends up dead. I can’t bear to imagine you ending up dying like that--”

Crowley suddenly felt very guilty, “I wouldn’t have died, it would have been fine--”

“You don’t know that.”

“Well, apparently we’re not going out either, so it wouldn’t matter to you.”

Aziraphale looked like he’d just been slapped in the face. “Crowley, do you think I like keeping us a secret?” he asked. “Do you? Greta is lovely, but she leaks like a sieve, and anything said to her will be common knowledge in a week. I mean, that’s how the donation to the shelter got out, her splashing it across Twitter. I had no idea until I got a horrible Skype call from Gabriel.” Aziraphale wrung his hands, somehow looking as if he was folding up into himself. With a sigh, he said, “The only thing I've done that meant anything was the Miracle Foundation. I couldn't save the world, but I could make it better. Just a little bit. By begging my brothers for money, so they didn't have to. And I was good at it. At least, I felt like I was good at it. Certainly much better at that than at anything else I've tried. And even then... I still lost it."

Crowley grabbed him by the hand, and said, “You never told me about Greta.”

“It wasn’t her fault, really. I didn’t tell her not to say anything. I didn’t want to bring any attention to it. But it’s how it ended up. It’s easy to fight, when you’re not always a walking target. I don't just mean queer." Aziraphale's brow knit itself in frustration, "I mean, I'm very odd. Even aside from being a homosexual."

Crowley was a little surprised to hear him talk like this, but kept his mouth shut, despite the temptation to talk.

"I went to the bank today. They refused to close the account without Michael there. I couldn’t have done so anyway, because they needed ID, and I don’t even have my own passport." His voice sounded small and wretched. "They won't even let me transfer more than £500 out at a time. I'm being treated like a naughty child, but I'm an adult."

“Angel…your family…your family are keeping you prisoner. That isn’t right. None of it is right.”

“They…they love me. They think this is how to look after me. I know I’m odd. I've always been odd. Always slightly misaligned with the rest of the world. And that’s why they look after me like this. I’m…soft. In the head. I can’t deal with the world on my own.”

“Angel, your family are so wrong about you.” Crowley lifted Aziraphale’s head, and gave him a peck on the lips. “You are so bright. So clever. So wise. Giving in isn’t the way forward. You're talking to a chav from a council estate who went to Cambridge and ended up in commercial law. If I’d listened to what people thought about me, I’d never have got anywhere."

"But I'm not like you," said Aziraphale, placing his hand on Crowley's elbow.

"Yes, but you're very..." Crowley decided not to finish that sentence, but grabbed at his hand "You're different, and that's a great thing. I've never fit in anywhere, either. And we don’t have to fit in. We just need to fit us.” Crowley looked into Aziraphale’s eyes, hoping to see fire, but instead saw the start of tears. Crowley hugged him and said, “Let’s go home.”

Aziraphale laughed sadly. "We probably should."

"We could see if that gelato place is still open." Crowley suggested.

"Foul fiend" Aziraphale muttered, but without much conviction. 

*

Crowley didn't turn his phone back on until they reached the bookshop. As soon as it came back to life, his phone buzzed and beeped madly, letting him know about the dozen missed calls from Beelzebub.

"Angel, I've got a call I need to make. I'll just be outside."

Aziraphale finished his ice-cream, and headed inside. 

Crowley walked around the corner, pulled out a cigarette and lit it before he rang Beelzebub back.

"Crowley! Where've you been?" she snapped.

"Sorry, I was on the underground. Just been to the theatre." Crowley whispered, uncomfortable with how loudly his voice echoed. 

"The theatre?" she scoffed, "Isn’t that a bit bourgeois for you?"

"I Saw Hamilton. Lots of people like Hamilton."

"You don't."

"I enjoyed it!" He took another drag of his cigarette. "Okay, it was alright." He sighed, " Now why do you want me?"

"I got an interesting piece of work come through, from Sandalphon & Uriel. Top secret, they won't even tell us what it's about, except dissolving an NGO. Probably one of those boutique hedge funds, trying to dispose of a dying company and strip its corpse for coins."

Crowley did not let on how unimpressed he was and said, "What's this got to do with me? Haven't you got Adam to help you out?"

"I want to make sure we make a good impression. If we get Sandalphon & Uriel as a regular client, we could get some very well-paid work in."

"So why do want me?"

Beelzebub sighed. "Don't make me say it."

"Say what?" grinned Crowley.

"You bloody bell-end."

"What?"

"You're trying to make me say that I think you do good advices and researches," Beelzebub groaned.

"Thanks Beelzebub!" Crowley smiled.

"Never do that to me again." She grunted. "If your head gets any bigger it won't fit through the door. But I know that you won't half-arse it, once you've got the brief in your head. Adam is a good kid, but he's not been here five minutes, and I need this to go well. As long as you let me do the talking, and don't dress like a knob, you'll be fine."

"So when do you need me?" He asked.

"The meeting is at 10, tomorrow, so I need you at Chambers at 9.30. We'll get a cab there. 

"Okay, well see you tomorrow." 

"Crowley?"

"Yeah?"

"Go to bed. I don't need you fainting in a client meeting." Beelzebub suppressed a smug laugh as she ended the call. 

Crowley normally would have felt galled by this comment, and stayed up all night to spite her, but tonight he just wanted to curl up with Aziraphale. 

Aziraphale had already changed into his pyjamas and was brushing his teeth by the time he got upstairs.

"Who was that?" asked Aziraphale, mouth full of toothpaste.

"Just Chambers," said Crowley, "Got a client meeting tomorrow morning."

Aziraphale spit into the sink. "Oh, anything exciting?"

"Possibly. Big law firm want us for a job, all very top secret. Should be fun." Crowley slumped on the sofa and started taking his boots off.

Aziraphale padded out of the little bathroom and sat down next to him. "That all sounds very exciting."

"Eh, Beelzebub is excited about it. And I'm glad to be in her good books, at least for now." Crowley lined his shoes up carefully, "A little bit of deviling, and perhaps more work in the future." Crowley yawned. "I am a lot more tired than I thought I was."

"It's almost like you got up early, worked a very intense job, then went out to see a play and tried to start a fight on the way home."

“When you put it like that…” Crowley rested his head on Aziraphale’s shoulder, and felt his muscles relax. “Bed?”

Aziraphale placed his hand on Crowley’s head, and kissed him on the cheek. “Teeth first, then bed.”

*

Crowley, as so often, was running late. He had ignored his alarm the next morning, and would have remained curled up with Aziraphale had the latter not finally forced him out of bed, reminding him that he had a big day today.

By the time Crowley got to Chambers, Beelzebub was waiting outside, standing next to a black cab with a face like thunder.

"Good morning!" he said cheerfully.

Beelzebub, without a word, grabbed him by the wrist and dragged him into the taxi. She slammed the door shut and yelled, "You're late!"

"It's not going to take half an hour to get to Fenchurch Street!" Crowley argued back.

Adam, who was sat in the back of the cab, gave him a look, as if asking him to be quiet.

"I'm not having you risking this for us, Crowley."

The cab pulled out, and turned into Gray's Inn Road.

"Put your seatbelt on!" she snapped.

"Alright Beelzebub," replied Crowley, pulling the belt across himself, "Keep your hair on!"

"...and I told you not to dress like a knob, and you're wearing those snakeskin shoes!" she groaned.

"No one will care about my shoes." Crowley rolled his eyes. "Anyway, they're Church's. They're posh."

"And those fucking glasses!" Beelzebub grabbed them off his face, revealing dark circles and his yellow irises..."on second thought, keep those on."

She returned them to Crowley, who put them back on carefully. 

"Crowley, are you trying to give me an ulcer this morning?" Beelzebub demanded, "Because if you are, you're doing a bang-up job."

"I'm here to help you," he said unconvincingly. "Have you had anything else from Sandalphon & Uriel?"

"Nothing," she replied, gripping her seatbelt. "I don't know what's so secret I can't be told over the phone, but we're meeting with Sandalphon and Uriel themselves, so it must be big."

Crowley sucked air through his teeth. "Bloody hell."

"Yeah. Something must have gone very wrong, somewhere." Beelzebub looked out of the window. 

"Well, by the time barristers are called in, that's usually the case," Crowley replied breezily.

"I suppose so," she sighed. "But this is giving me a bad feeling. I got the call from Uriel herself last night. I mean, she's had my business card for a year, but I never expected her to call me personally. Something has spooked them."

"Someone probably asked them on a nasty bit of tax law, and they want us to double-check it," Crowley said dismissively.

"I hope you're right. I suppose they have lots of very high-class clients. All with skeletons to hide."

Crowley nodded sagely. "Could be a super-injunction[2]. Especially if it's hedge funds messing around with an NGO."

"Ugh, I hate doing super-injunctions. They're fiddly." Beelzebub suddenly seemed less stressed. "But a good thing for Adam to involve himself in." Beelzebub turned to Adam and said, "It'll look great on your tenancy application."

"Yeah," replied Adam, unconvincingly, "my tenancy application."

"If you end up working on a super-injunction, I bet your dad will put it on the fridge," joked Crowley, "well, he can't, it's a super-injunction, so you can't even report that it happened. But if he could..."

"I'd rather he didn't," Adam muttered, going red.

"... Well, whatever this is, it'll make tenancy a shoe-in for you."

"Yeah, thanks," replied Adam gloomily.

Beelzebub looked out the window and hissed, "Bloody traffic."

"Beelzebub, we've just gone past the Barbican, we could walk it if we had to." Crowley hissed back.

"I wouldn't have to worry about traffic if you'd turned up on time!"

"And I've saved you sitting in a Pret[3] for ten minutes, because you've been paranoid about time." Crowley replied. 

"Better sitting in Pret than in traffic."

"Look, it's moving now. We'll only have 5 minutes in Pret before the meeting." Crowley rolled his eyes

"...and you can knock that off as soon as you like." Beelzebub crossed her arms, and slumped in the seat.

They sat in silence for a few minutes. Beelzebub checked her mobile for any updates, anxiety buzzing off her like flies. 

As the cab crawled through the slow-moving traffic, the Gherkin emerged into view. Whilst the Gherkin had since been surpassed by other, bigger, more ridiculously named buildings, it never ceased to fill him with awe, wonder and unease. They'd built it the same year he returned to London, all glass and steel and controversial design. Crowley felt that it was almost like a temple: built on the sacred ground of banking, a huge, phallic offering to the gods of finance, providing sacrifices in the form of buying and selling the livelihoods of thousands. More blood was saturated through that tower than any Aztec pyramid. 

It was all rather bad taste, really. 

The Gherkin fell out of view as the cab turned down Fenchurch Street. 

The cab drew up outside the Walkie Talkie[4], and they got out without a word. As the cab pulled away, they looked up at the curved front, taking it all in.

Glass and steel. Impossible, expensive cleanliness. An ability to melt cars on particularly hot days[5]. The entire thing was a shrine to accumulated wealth, and a folly reaching up to the sky to sit alongside God with no consideration for the people below. 

They forced their way through the gusts of wind caused by the curvature of the building[6], and into the lobby. 

After smoothing down their suits, Crowley whispered, in a voice that echoed around the lobby, "well, this is all rather gauche."

"Can you be quiet, Crowley?" hissed Beelzebub. 

Having established from the receptionist that Sandalphon & Uriel was on the 20th floor, they got in the lift, which was lit uncomfortably bright, and breathed a collective sigh of nerves.

"I hate these buildings," muttered Crowley.

"You're not the only one," said Beelzebub. "How do they manage to be so expansive and stifling at the same time?"

"I...I think they're okay," said Adam.

They both turned to him, and looked horrified. The elevator started to go up.

"I mean, they're okay. They're just buildings," Adam said.

"I know they're just buildings," snapped Beelzebub, "But these skyscrapers make me feel sick."

Crowley knew exactly what she meant as his stomach dropped, and the gravity pushed down on his body. He felt like he was having his insides squished by the movement. 

By the time they reached the 20th floor, Adam was the only one who didn't feel decided nauseous. They were met by an anonymously pretty girl in a grey skirt suit, who led them to Uriel's office. The uniform, grey, strip-lit walls made the walk feel like a purgatory.

They stepped into Uriel's office, and were bathed in bright sunlight. Crowley was glad of his glasses, as he could see Beelzebub and Adam were squinting. 

The first thing he noticed was how tastefully minimalist the room was. No big shelves of files or books or bundles of papers, just a desk, with two razor-thin laptops sitting atop it, and a couple of ergonomic chairs behind it. 

In those chairs, bathed in golden light, were Uriel and Sandalphon. Uriel was an intimidatingly beautiful woman, with sculpted limbs, bright eyes and a taste for gold highlighter. Sandalphon was expensively dressed in a camel suit, with a smile like a shark inviting you to lunch.

They both stood up, and Uriel stepped from behind the desk. She held a perfectly manicured hand out to Beelzebub, and they shook.

"Thank you, Beelzebub, for coming at such short notice." Uriel's voice sparkled like a diamond. 

"Pleasure," Beelzebub croaked. "Uriel, this is my junior, Anthony Crowley, and my pupil, Adam Young."

Uriel smiled a brittle smile, scanning them up and down. Crowley felt as if he had been judged as wanting. "Lovely to meet you. Please, take a seat."

She motioned to the front of the desk, and three of the most stylish and uncomfortable chairs he'd ever seen. 

They sat down in the same formation they had come in, Beelzebub in the middle and front, Adam behind and right, Crowley behind and left. He took his laptop out of his bag, and switched it on, getting ready to take notes. 

"Now, Uriel, you've kept this all very secret," said Beelzebub. "How can we help you?"

Sandalphon lent forward, "Apologies. Our client has a very sensitive matter which requires the highest levels of...discretion." He smiled at the word 'discretion'. _Are those gold teeth?_ Crowley thought to himself.

Sandalphon's mouth closed mechanically. "Our client is a very respected, ethical investment firm, who are having a few problems...dissolving...a charitable organisation they set up."

Crowley typed some notes, barely looking up from the screen. 

"The CEO they put at the head of the organisation has gone rogue," said Uriel, the words cutting through the air. "He made charitable payments to organisations which did not meet the... rigorous ethical criteria they had set out and refused funding to other worthy organisations."

Crowley's stomach dropped. This all sounded very familiar...

"Now, my client may have made some...mistakes in how they handled the CEOs removal, but he has some lawyer who is threatening to make trouble for my client." Sandalphon produced a document, a few pages long, and placed it on the desk. "The CEO is a member of the client's family, so we do need a level of sensitivity in how this matter is dealt with, but my client has made it very clear that they will not be giving in to these demands." As Sandalphon picked up the document dramatically and passed the document to Beelzebub, Crowley saw it.

Oh no.

His eyes widened in panic.

Uriel smiled and added, "I have to admit, it's not badly drafted. Obviously put together by someone who knows what they're doing, but my client can't possibly agree to these terms. Especially after the embarrassment the CEO caused them."

"Beelzebub," Crowley said, voice small and quivering.

Beelzebub ignored him and said, "What sort of embarrassment?"

"My client's company has a very Christian ethos, so funding any organisation that goes against those beliefs causes issues with investors." Sandalphon’s teeth glinted in the light. "So if my client's charitable foundation suddenly starts funding sodomites and transvestites, it looks very bad."

  
"Beelzebub," Crowley repeated, more urgently this time. 

Beelzebub smiled painfully at Sandalphon's comment and said, "So, how many of these mis-allocations happened?"

"We're going through the papers still, but it looks like there are at least four. But it came to light when a large award was granted to a shelter for gays and they publicly thanked my client over social media."

Crowley slammed his laptop shut. "I...I can't be here." He shoved his laptop back in his bag, and shaking, he left the room, not closing the door.

Beelzebub and Adam exchanged looks. Then, annoyed, Beelzebub said, "I apologise for my junior, he's an idiot," and followed him out.

She found him in the hallway, leaning against the wall, breathing erratically.

"What the fuck are you playing at?" she hissed.

"I...I can't. I can't be here," he whispered back.

"You can't be here?" she rasped back, "What the hell does that mean?" 

"I'm professionally embarrassed[7]."

"Professionally embarrassed? Right now I'm professionally mortified." She grabbed him by the ear and pulled him down to her face. "Now listen here you ginger piece of shit, you need to explain what the fuck you mean right now."

"Ow ow ow ow ow," he winced, trying to keep his voice down, "You saw that counter-offer, right?"

Beelzebub's face flashed with rage, and she pulled on his ear again. "You what? Oh, fucking hell Crowley..."

Beelzebub pulled on his ear again, harder. Crowley cried out in pain and whimpered, "I had no idea, I swear."

"And I'm in there, with you, looking like the world's biggest arsehole!" She let go of his ear and said, "Why are you such an idiot?"

"Well they didn't tell us what the meeting was about! How the hell am I supposed to do proper conflict of interest checks when it's a fucking secret meeting!"

"Do you have any idea how much work Sandalphon & Uriel could put our way? How much money that word bring into Chambers?" Beelzebub growled, "And I've got to go back in there and wipe up the absolute hurricane of shit you've brought in with you!"

"I didn't know I was going to go in there and end up being shit on," Crowley snapped back, "I had no intention on being shit on, you can't blame me for going in there, without knowing about my client being shat on, and then that shit hitting the fan!"

"Your client being...oh Crowley, how fucking deep does this go?"

"Deep?"

"I've got to work out how much shit I've got to shovel."

"I just worked on the counteroffer with him. I didn't even know about the number of so-called mis-allocations...'

"Well, if he's not told you everything, he's left you up the shitter, hasn't he?" she growled, and sunk her fingernails into his shoulder. "Some clients aren't worth the trouble. Now, you, you get out of here. I'm going to have to explain that I just had the opposing counsel in their office taking notes on the case. Then I have to explain why we can still do the case. Crowley, I will rip you a new arsehole and shove your bollocks into it later." Beelzebub let go, and stalked back into the room. 

Crowley did not have to be told twice to go. As soon as he got in the lift, he messaged _Aziraphale we need to talk. _

_Why didn't you tell me about the other grants? _

_Well, Good Morning to you too! _

_What are you talking about?_

Crowley's eyebrows knitted in frustration.

_You know exactly what I'm talking about. _

_The Foundation._

_Why in heaven's name is this coming up again_? Aziraphale messaged back.

_I've just come out of a client meeting for your brother's case. This is serious. You can't keep ignoring it. _Crowley felt his stomach jump to his throat as the lift went down. After a moment he added _They want to destroy you._

_Crowley, they do not want to destroy me. _

_They're my family. _

_They love me, they just don’t understand the situation._

The words infuriated him.

_How can someone so clever be so stupid?_

_THEY DO NOT CARE ABOUT YOU. _

_They want you back in line._

_That’s it. _

Crowley waited as the status changed to ‘Aziraphale is typing’. He felt his stomach drop violently, as he could tell that Aziraphale was typing and re-typing his response.

Crowley couldn't wait. He never could wait.

_Your brothers already control so much of your life. _

_They control your money, when and where you can work, what films you can see, you’re so scared of them._

_You won’t even admit that we’re going out because you’re so scared. _

_I’ve never hated people I’ve never met before so damn much in my life._

_BOLLOCKS TO YOUR FAMILY._

_GREAT PUSTULENT MANGLED BOLLOCKS TO YOUR BLASTED FAMILY._

_How dare you._ Aziraphale messaged back, much, much quicker.

The lift stopped on the ground floor. Crowley shoved his phone back into his suit pocket, and ran out of the building, his feet echoing across the hall. Once outside he kept running, partly because of the blasted wind tunnel this building had created, and partly because of the adrenaline that was flooding his body. 

He had to talk to Aziraphale. Properly. Not over WhatsApp. He had to get to the bookshop and talk to him properly. He was running, his legs filling up with lactic acid and his lungs starting to choke him. He had reached Monument Station when we remembered that he was a 42-year-old smoker who hadn't exercised since school. Gasping for air, he flagged down a black cab, and in between gasps, gave the driver the address for the bookshop.

Once inside, he sat down, and pulled out his phone again. 

_How dare you?_

_How actually dare you? _

_No, Crowley, I forgive you, I know you didn’t have the best upbringing, but you are completely out of line talking about my family like that. _

_I am sorry if I have caused you some embarrassment, I really am, but you are being ridiculous. _

_I've been thinking about this - I don't think the answer is legal. I just need to talk to my brothers, explain what happened, and we will find a way forward. They will do the right thing, as will I._

Crowley scowled. Typing back frantically he said, _It took you so long to type out all that bollocks? _

_They don't want to do the 'right thing.'_

_They want to make money from Evangelicals, even if they have to throw you under the bus._

Aziraphale is typing, Aziraphale is typing, Aziraphale is typing...

Finally he replied _You don't understand how family works. _

_I'm sorry your family were so awful, but mine will forgive me. I just need to talk to them properly. _

_This is ridiculous. _

_You are ridiculous. _

_I don't even know why I'm still replying to your messages. _

_Frankly, neither do I. _

Aziraphale stopped typing. 

Crowley, in a fit of rage, growled and threw his phone across the cab. The phone bounced back towards him, landing at his feet. 

He grabbed the phone again, and called Anathema. "Did you know?" he barked into the phone.

"Crowley, what on earth are you talking about?"

"DID YOU KNOW?" he repeated, louder.

"I have no idea what you're talking about...Newt, not now!"

"Did you know about Beelzebub's meeting?" he spat.

"What meeting? I thought she was showing Adam around Middle Temple today?"

"No, I just walked out of a client meeting for Celeste & Sons at Sandalphon & Uriel, looking like an incompetent bell-end because I had no idea what it fucking was!"

"Oh...oh fuck." He could hear her sit down in the background.

"Yeah, so did you know, you fucking witch?"

"Of course I had no idea, Crowley! Why the hell are you yelling at me?"

"Because..." He stopped, and realised she had a point.

"You are an idiot, Crowley, a transparent idiot. You're calling me because Beelzebub messed up, and Aziraphale messed up, but you can’t yell at them so you're taking it out on me. And it isn't fair." 

"Not fair? Not fair? I'll tell you what's not fair, having to extricate myself from a meeting where I've just found out Aziraphale _lied_ to me."

"I'm not taking this from you, Crowley," she replied, her voice wavering.

"You what?"

"I'm not taking this from you." Her voice was now full of tears, "This is your problem with Aziraphale, not mine. And you're being…_horrible_..." The phone clicked as the call ended. 

Crowley looked at his phone, and realised what he had done. Fuck. "Fuck, fuck fuck!" He swore to himself, hitting his leg. "Driver, change of plan. Can you take me to Mayfair instead?

NOTES

* * *

[1] This is your humble author’s usual order. It combines both types of low self-esteem: trying to take up as little space as possible by ordering something easy and inexpensive.

[2] A super-injunction is a type of injunction that not only prevents the publication of information about a particular matter, but also prevents the reporting of the fact that the injunction exists at all. Literally no one can say exactly how many there are, because part of the injunction prevents it being reported, which frankly, sounds like a Discworld joke more than an actual part of law.

[3] Short for ‘_Prêt à Manger’_, a chain of Sandwich shops in Central London. There appear to be around infinity of these, filled with folks in suits.

[4] Yes, there is a building known as ‘the Walkie Talkie’. And some of the heaven scenes were filmed at the top of it. Have a map! <https://medium.com/@turtleneckdiva/aziraphale-crowleys-london-c13faf901fef>

[5] This is a real thing which happened shortly after the Walkie Talkie was built - <https://www.bbc.co.uk/news/uk-england-london-23930675>

[6] This is also another real thing. I cannot explain how much I dislike this building. My editor/Husband, however, bloody loves it. <https://www.bbc.co.uk/news/magazine-33426889>

[7] Professional embarrassment means a lot of things, but essentially refers to situations where the barrister must refuse a case because either they don’t have the skill base or time to do the case properly, or, in this case here, they’re _dating-not-dating_ the other side.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Not got much to say about this one, save that I feel like I've re-written it three times, despite it involving both one of the earliest scenes and earliest jokes I came up with for this fic. 
> 
> Let me know what you think! Only thing I'm gonna add is that THEY ARE GONNA GET A SUPER HAPPY ENDING BECAUSE THEY DESERVE IT.


	10. This Party Fears Two

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Named after a song by a band called the Associates. They are criminally underrated, very queer and a little overwhelming, but worth the effort. Also, Lead singer Billy Mackenzie was apparently the inspiration behind The Smith’s ‘William, It was really nothing’.
> 
> As much as I love and prefer the original one, [the Heaven 17 cover](https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=mj4of1kGhYs) fits this chapter better. Take that as the unofficial soundtrack! 
> 
> **CHAPTER SPECIFIC CONTENT WARNINGS**
> 
> ** ** **Bad Language, Homophobia, internalised and otherwise, Emotional Abuse, like seriously please take care of yourself with that if Emotional Abuse can trigger you, some slut-shaming****** ** **

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Okay, I’m afraid I need to make a few announcements, but they’re mostly good!
> 
> Moving posting from Saturday to Sunday, as I seem to get stuff out more reliably then. 
> 
> Chapter 11 and 12, I’m hoping to post a few days apart due to both not wanting to leave stuff hanging and getting ready to post some Christmas stuff! That said, it will possibly leave me with less ‘lead time’, so after Christmas, I was thinking of posting some fragments of backstory; which would you most like to see:
> 
> • Crowley at University and the Criminal Bar.  
• How Madam Tracey and Aziraphale met  
• What the pupils are up to, and how they’re coping  
• Free Space – anything else you’d like to see, although I assure you that the Christmas season brings softness and love!
> 
> Unrelated, but would people be happy to divulge their favourite karaoke/ shower/ stuck in a car in traffic song? The one you tend to want to rock out to, either in public or private? I will admit that I’m asking for Plot Reasons, but I also know that my go-to tracks are somewhat…esoteric. Thanks to @Ineffablefool I am now on a Sparks binge. 
> 
> Oh yes, as per usual, I am on Tumbrl as bouncygin. Come and say hi!

Half an hour later, Beelzebub threw herself in the back of a taxi, fuming with anger. 

"I will kill Crowley," she seethed. 

"You saved it," said Adam, "I was surprised how you saved it."

"I'm a barrister, half the job is being able to bullshit on the fly." She sighed. "But I am going to kill him when I get back."

"But we've got the job!" Adam interrupted.

"Yes, but trust my luck that this Ezra Fail Celeste has poached Crowley from under my fucking nose." She glowered, hate radiating off her.

"Aziraphale Celeste," Adam corrected, looking at his notes.

"I don't care if this guy is the whore of fucking Babylon. It's embarrassing."

"Hey, l'll tell you what would be really funny," said Adam, trying to lighten the mood, "Pepper was telling me that Ligur thinks Crowley has a secret boyfriend...wouldn't it be funny if it was him?"

Beelzebub's eyes bulged, as if she were about to explode.

*

The Celestes were always an early rising family. It was part of the reason they were so successful; strong moral compass, positive attitudes and good, simple living. 

Gabriel had just come back from jogging in Central Park, and after a quick shower was getting ready to read his emails, when he saw the Skype call come through from Michael. 

Gabriel leant back in his chair as he answered the call, and said, "Talk to me."

"Gabriel, I have just had a very interesting call with our solicitors in London."

Gabriel smiled. "Is the tantrum Aziraphale has been throwing over now?"

"Unfortunately not. But some more details about his behaviour have come to light." Michael's voice practically lit up.

Gabriel leant forward. "Oh?"

*

If Beelzebub had been fuming that morning, she was a forest fire by the time she got back to Chambers.

"Where the fuck is Ligur?" she screamed as she entered. 

Anathema came out of her office, having clearly been crying. "He's in his room," she gasped, and headed back into her room. 

Adam plodded in after Beelzebub, his face an expression of pure despondency. Newton popped his head out of Anathema's office and asked him, "What have you done?"

"Me, I've done nothing! It's Crowley" Adam hissed back, as Beelzebub stamped up the stairs. 

"I think we all need to go to the pupil room, now," Newton said with a forcefulness that seemed entirely foreign to him. 

Beelzebub was a force of nature by the time she reached the top floor and slammed Ligur's door open.

"Ligur, you perfidious bastard, how long have you been sitting on the fact that Crowley has been representing Aziraphale Celeste?"

Ligur and Dagon looked terrified. 

Beelzebub, buzzing with fury, grabbed Ligur by the ear and pulled him down to her level. "Talk, lizard."

Ligur yelped with pain. "I didn't know! This is the first I've heard of it," he squeaked.

"Beelzebub, he didn't know!" interjected Dagon.

"Shut up, you walking venereal disease!" Beelzebub shrieked with pure contempt, before pulling on Ligur's ear again and shouting, enunciating each word, "Apparently you were telling your pupil about a secret boyfriend!"

Ligur's face changed to pained confusion. "Yeah, I was...but what's that got to do with anything?"

*

"I understand that they met with Aziraphale's lawyer." Michael smiled malevolently, before switching back to performative concern. "Entirely unintentionally, admittedly, but it came up during a meeting with counsel for the Foundation."

Michael sent Gabriel a link. "Please look at this."

*

"What's that got to do with anything? Dagon, make yourself useful and Google Aziraphale Celeste." Beelzebub kept a hold on Ligur's ear.

Dagon started typing it in. "Azira...how is that spelt..."

"Aye. Zed. Eye. Arr..." growled Beelzebub.

"Don't worry, it autocorrected!" Dagon said with a grin. 

The air seemed to solidify as they waited for the page to load. Once it did, Dagon put her hand over her mouth, trying to hide her laughter. She turned the computer around dramatically.

*

"This is Anthony J Crowley, junior, 20 years call," said Michael, as Gabriel looked at the picture on the website.

The photo was of a thin man with long red hair pulled partially back in a bun. He presumed the man was trying to look poised, but instead he looked like a bored teenager on school picture day. The face looked back at Gabriel, eyes peering over a pair of sunglasses.

"So this is the man who wrote that counter-offer for him?" said Gabriel quizzically.

"Yes," replied Michael. Then, as if to add to the scandal, he said, "I understand he did it pro bono."

*

"Crowley, Crowley, Crowley, what have you been playing at,” said Ligur, looking at the picture of a somewhat familiar figure.

The picture Dagon had chosen to show was of Aziraphale at some charitable function, sitting between Greta and Rose. He was positively beaming, cheeks round and rosy, happiness radiating from the picture. His hair caught the flash in such a way that his curls looked like a halo around his head.

"Is this the secret boyfriend then?" snapped Beelzebub.

"Yes" Ligur squeaked.

Beelzebub let Ligur go. The three of them stared at the picture, taking a few moments as they processed a number of different facts.

Finally, Beelzebub spoke.

"I'm not sure what I was expecting, but it wasn't this," said Beelzebub quietly.

"They do seem pretty different, physically," Dagon conceded. 

"I didn't have Crowley down as gay," said Beelzebub carefully, "But if I had, I definitely wouldn't have expected him to be dating a...big fella."

"I don't know," smiled Dagon, "I think he looks cute for a fat guy."

*

Gabriel laughed, "I think I was expecting something less impressive!"

"Aziraphale claims that he's a friend," Michael scoffed, "But I've been hearing rumours. The Kleinschmidt girl that worked for Aziraphale tweeted something about being on a double date with an older queer couple last night."

"So you think..."

"Yes. I think Aziraphale has been keeping company with this man. And not just company, but has been lusting... unnaturally."

Gabriel furrowed his brow. "There has to be an innocent explanation."

"Gabriel, I hope there is, " said Michael, unconvincingly, "but I don't think there is. I've not had time to look into Anthony Crowley yet, but there's enough on his Chambers’ website to raise... concerns."

*

"My concern isn't if you think he's fuckable or not, Dagon, my concern is that there is a very good chance that not only has he not declared this to Chambers, but that he's also fucking a client." Beelzebub, having been incandescent with rage before, now seemed to be merely in a foul mood. She took a deep breath and asked, "So, why do you two pricks think he's getting his shirt lifted by Goldilocks there?"

"You know when Crowley got ill? This guy came into Chambers with that bundle and had a row with Anathema," said Ligur. "Proper big row as well. Very suspicious."

"And Crowley had sandwiches with him when he got back," Dagon added, "With goat’s cheese in." Beelzebub nodded at this damning evidence, encouraging Dagon to continue. "He gave them to Pulsifer. Crowley doesn't bring lunch."

"And Dagon, this is the guy you saw him with the other night?" Ligur added.

"Yeah, this guy," she replied, pointing at the screen. 

Beelzebub punched her fist into her open hand. Then, as if announcing damning evidence, she hissed, "I knew Crowley wouldn't go see Hamilton on his own!"

*

.

"Do you think he could influence him, Michael?" asked Gabriel, seriously.

"This Crowley is a rather attractive man, and he obviously has his head screwed on."

"So do you think..."

Michael sighed. "I think this Crowley has realised that Aziraphale is weak. And that there's money in pretending to like him." 

*

"Oh ho ho! Crowley, you snake!" Dagon giggled. "He must have it bad for this guy!"

"Oh fuck, can you imagine Crowley being told what to do by Brideshead Revisited there?" Ligur laughed, "He must be whipped!"

Ligur and Dagon burst into fresh fits of giggles.

"Right class, simmer down," Beelzebub growled. 

*

Gabriel was silent for a moment. "This is very concerning."

"How do you want to proceed, Gabriel?" 

Gabriel sat there for a moment, clearly considering his options. "I think Aziraphale has been given too much freedom. And that's my fault. I am the shepherd of my family, and if one of my flock go astray, it's my job to make sure they are found."

"Yes Gabriel."

"I will be giving him a call later, get the full story, but in the meantime, how quickly can you get to London?"

"Should be able to get there in 10 hours, flights permitting," she replied.

"Good." Gabriel smiled. "I will make a few calls later. There are some therapists in Texas who are good at dealing with these issues. But in the meantime, he needs to be taken out of the way of temptation."

"I'll book tickets now," Michael replied.

"Thank you, Michael. I am grateful for your quick thinking." 

*

"I've got a plan now," said Beelzebub. "Ligur, Crowley is almost certainly having a sulk. Go to his flat, tell him he needs to come here for a chat. Him having a boyfriend isn't a problem, but making me look like a twat in front of Sandalphon & Uriel is."

"So...you want me to drag him out of his closet?" asked Ligur.

"For fuck’s sake...I can understand why he's such a cunt all the time, if this is what he was getting from you."

"No, he isn't!" Ligur protested, "He's always had girlfriends before! I mean, he told me he thought he might be bisexual once, but we'd been drinking for hours at that point!"

"Oh for..." Beelzebub sighed, and pressed her fingers against her eyelids. "He might listen to you. If you stop with that bollocks."

"Okay, okay, I'm going to his." Ligur rolled his eyes. 

*

Aziraphale was trying to take his mind off the argument he'd had with Crowley by cataloguing.

Pity it wasn't working.

His phone sat on his desk, like an upturned cockroach he couldn't quite bring himself to kill. 

Crowley was being ridiculous, Aziraphale repeated to himself. He was still waiting to hear back from his brothers, but it seemed to Aziraphale that the best thing would be to talk to them properly, like the adults they all are, and resolve this once and for all. 

Aziraphale had been reading up on the interpretation of various Bible verses, and he was certain that all he needed was a little bit of time for a theological discussion. His one year at seminary (before realising it was not his path) had taught him a little Koine Greek[1], and he knew how much of a headache the word _homoousion**[2]**_ had caused since the first Council of Nicaea, so the various interpretations of _malakoi__**[3]**_ in Corinthians were just as bad. 

They would see that Aziraphale was a man of faith and had considered the matter. They would listen to him calmly explaining the issues, and how his desires were not the ones to abuse other men or force them into anything they didn't want, but to love differently. And perhaps they wouldn't see eye to eye, but they would see reason.

Crowley, with his wicked temper, legalistic thinking and cynical attitude couldn't see any other way through things. 

_It had nothing to do with him insulting his family, at all. _

The phone on his desk started to ring. Maybe it was Crowley? He wished his first reaction wasn't for his heart to leap into his throat and hope it was him. He was meant to be angry with him, not ready to apologise. 

Aziraphale ran for the phone, and picked it up. Gabriel? Maybe he had news on the counter-offer?

"Good morning, Gabriel," Aziraphale smiled.

"Good morning sunshine," replied Gabriel, voice thick and saccharine, "How are you?"

Aziraphale felt his throat dry up. "I'm well, Gabriel, very well."

"That's good. Because I've heard some very strange rumours about you." Gabriel's voice was heavy with honeyed concern.

"O...oh...have you?" Aziraphale stuttered, the back of his neck burning with heat.

"Yes. I've heard someone say that you have been keeping company with a man."

"Oh...c...c... company?" Aziraphale felt like a small child again, being caught sneaking biscuits before dinner. Without even thinking, he lied. "Oh, that's probably just my lawyer. Business discussions and all that."

"Business discussions?" Gabriel sounded almost amused. 

"Yes.” The heat on the back of his neck spread, paralysing him, “erm, talking business."

Gabriel was quiet for a moment. "What sort of business?"

"Oh....err...this and th...th...that." Aziraphale trembled, his head full of static. 

"Good. Because I would be very upset to find out if you were lying to me." Was that threat? Disappointment? Concern? Aziraphale couldn't quiet tell. 

"Of c...c...course Gabriel." Why was it so hard to speak?

"Because the rumour I heard was that you were spending a lot of time with this...Crawley?"

"Crowley," Aziraphale corrected automatically.

"Ah, yes, this Crowley." Gabriel left a horrible pause. "I looked him up: barrister, 20 years call, went to King’s College, Cambridge, got a first, received a scholarship for Law School from Gray's Inn, oh, won the James Hunt prize for advocacy during pupillage. Very impressive. Very, very, impressive." Aziraphale could hear the comparison between the two of them in Gabriel's voice. 

"I...I...suppose it is," replied Aziraphale, suddenly feeling very inadequate. How had he never asked about these things? Somehow Crowley's career at the Bar had never really come up. Unless you counted him threatening to exsanguinate a judge. 

"He must find it very difficult taking to you, with a failed year of seminary and a 2:2 in English from Oxford." Gabriel's voice dripped with contempt.

Aziraphale felt his throat starting to close up, but found himself able to say, "He...he doesn't mind simplifying things for me."

"Yes, those advocacy skills,” Gabriel said condescendingly. “I suspect he's been filling your head with ideas." 

"N...not really..."

"Because your bank contacted me to tell me you tried to close your account," Gabriel purred, "and you know you can't do that."

"W...well Gabriel, I was thinking, maybe I could--"

"Maybe if you had asked,” Gabriel interrupted, “But going behind our backs? Certainly not."

"Oh.” Aziraphale sighed, trying to breathe. “Sorry Gabriel."

"Did Crowley tell you to do that?"

"W... what?" Aziraphale’s blood ran cold.

"To close your account? To move it to another one?"

"W...well...he did suggest that, perhaps, I should...maybe...have...more... control..." Aziraphale forced each word out like he was having to push it through sand. 

"Oh, he did? And why do you think he would do that?" Aziraphale was trying to formulate an answer when Gabriel continued, "Because I think that this Crowley has a plan for you."

"A plan?" asked Aziraphale.

"Yes. You see, this Crawley…"

"Crowley."

"This Crowley, is he a charming guy?"

"Sometimes." Aziraphale was glad Gabriel couldn't see the blush as he thought of him.

"Hmmm...and he has very striking features," Gabriel grudgingly conceded.

"I...I... don't know, I never noticed." Aziraphale felt flustered.

"Now, this man is highly educated, eloquent and well put together, so, the question is why he's spending so much time with _you_."

Aziraphale was silent, before repeating, "He's my lawyer, Gabriel, we just have some things to discuss--"

"Aziraphale, please stop talking." Aziraphale felt himself stop, almost involuntarily. "You're embarrassing yourself. You don't have any business. I think you're finding excuses to be around him."

Aziraphale felt his heart hammer in his chest. No, no, he can't...

"I think you're finding excuses to be around him, and that you're having unnatural thoughts about him." Gabriel sounded like a parent who had found the lie their child had told, and wanted them to do the right thing. "I understand that you have had your perversions for some time…"

"...Perversions, I have no idea what you're talking about…" Aziraphale lied desperately.

"...and men such as Crowley are quick to take advantage of them…"

"N...no, Gabriel, I...I... don't feel like that," Aziraphale pleaded.

Gabriel was unconvinced, but pressed on. "I'm glad to hear it. Because those are the sort of thoughts that rot a man from the inside out. Makes their faith fragile. Makes them act shamelessly."

"Y...yes Gabriel." Aziraphale felt himself becoming very small, the heat of shame and inadequacy making him shrink into himself. 

"I'm glad you don't feel like that. I was worried he might be influencing you with his sinful ideas." Gabriel laughed a clinical laugh.

"N...no...not at all." He replied automatically.

"Y'see, clever men can be very persuasive. They can twist sin to look like salvation, and salvation to look like cruelty. They are like_ whitewashed tombs, beautiful on the outside, but full of dead men's bones_." Gabriel paused, waiting for the words of scripture to sink in. "You know, the Pharisees were lawyers."

"N...n...not technically, the Pharisees were more a social movement, more comparable with modern Quakerism than lawyers..." Aziraphale started, words falling out his mouth involuntarily before Gabriel stopped him by clearing his throat. 

"It's that sort of talk that made you fail seminary."

Aziraphale was suddenly buoyed by anger at having his failure brought up yet again. "Gabriel, I think we need to talk about my counter-offer properly. I appreciate that the legal route was not perhaps the best way to approach it, but I made some reasonable demands--"

"--You think those demands were reasonable?" Gabriel's voice switched from loving concern to irritation, "Maybe they would be, if you had been an external hire, but don't forget, sunshine, you only had that job because I gave you it. All you had to do was do as you were told. And you couldn't even do that."

"G...g... Gabriel...."

"No, you listen to me. You're not some hot shot CEO giving the third sector a try, you are my idiot brother being given a job to keep you out of trouble. I've tried being nice, but after humiliating the family like that, I can't let you keep doing this. This Crowley, he doesn't care about you. He might pretend to, but he can smell money. He's not stupid. And once he has his cut, he will want nothing else to do with you. Your family, we have stuck by you, even when you have been ungrateful and stubborn. No one else would have given you that chance. No one. No one else would want anyone as effette, or as lazy as you."

"G...g..."

"Aziraphale, I will be arranging for Sandalphon and Uriel to visit you tomorrow. You will co-operate with them. I do not want you talking to that Crowley. He does not have your best interests at heart, and does not understand your situation."

"G... Gabriel...this is very..."

"Aziraphale. Shut your stupid mouth and, for once, do as you are told."

Aziraphale was silent for a moment, shaking with fear. As the words sink in, he felt his chest tighten and his mind fill with fog. He couldn't do anything. He was pathetic. He just wanted this over. "...yes Gabriel," he replied, like lines in a play. 

"I'm doing this for your own good," said Gabriel comfortingly, "I love you very much, and hate to see you going down the path of sin."

"Y...yes Gabriel." Aziraphale repeated.

Gabriel sounded relieved. "Good. I'm glad you understand. Okay sunshine, Sandalphon and Uriel will visit you tomorrow. Stay away from that Crowley, and we'll be able to resolve this"

"Yes, Gabriel."

The phone went silent. Aziraphale stood perfectly still for a full minute, swaying slightly, his mind feeling like it was drowning in panic and pain. 

He wished that he could just feel numb, let everything slide off him, but every part of him suddenly hurt. It hurt and ached and he wanted, more than anything, to speak to Crowley. But would he even care? About a stupid, ugly, failure of a man? 

He gasped for breath, and suddenly there were tears running down his face. 

*

Ligur had been ringing Crowley's doorbell for ten minutes.

"Crowley! I know you're in there," he yelled through the door. "I just want to talk."

The door buzzed, and unlocked itself, swinging open a crack. 

"I'm in here," Crowley yelled. 

Ligur moved through the flat quietly. The place was painted in dark, neutral tones and felt like that room that is only used for guests. It had an uncomfortable tidiness that came from identikit design and paranoid minimalism.

The nearest thing to personality this place had were the gaudy statues Crowley had bought in the first flushes of money, when he'd had his first year at Brimstone. It made the place feel more like a museum than a home. 

He was trying to work out where ‘in here’ was when he saw a door half-opened to his left. Through the door he saw a pair of legs, resting on an incongruously ornate desk. Ligur turned to the door and repeated, "I just want to talk."

"Good," said Crowley, "Then talk."

Ligur stood where he was, looking through the crack. "Beelzebub has calmed down," He said, feeling more like he was negotiating with a terrorist than talking to an old friend.

"I'm sure she has," Crowley half-yelled through the door.

"Come back to Chambers with me," Ligur said, "We can sort this all out."

"No," said Crowley, "We can't. I'm not going back."

"Why not?" asked Ligur.

"I'm just not," Crowley replied.

"Crowley, you're over-reacting. Stop being such a twat--" Ligur pushed the door open, and a bucket of water fell on his head. He screamed in shock as Crowley ran past him, pushing him to the side with a duffle bag.

"So long, sucker!" Crowley yelled, cackling.

"Oh, fuck you Crowley!" Ligur screamed back. "My suit is ruined!"

*

Crowley threw the battered duffle bag on the passenger seat of the Bentley, and raced from Mayfair to Soho. 

With some creative driving he quickly reached the bookshop. He came to a screeching halt outside, and got out quickly. Still a little dizzy from the drive, he leant on the top of the car and shouted, "Angel!"

No reply. Crowley sauntered quickly to the door and started knocking frantically. "Aziraphale, it's me. Let me in! Chambers know about us! Let's go away together."

"Go away." A small voice replied. Crowley couldn't quite see, but he was certain that Aziraphale was sitting behind the door

"We can go anywhere we want!" Crowley shouted, not taking in the reply. "I can get work in the Cayman Islands, or Hong Kong, fuck, we could go to Alpha Centauri for all I care!"

"No, Crowley. Please leave." 

Crowley was stunned. It took him a few moments for the words to sink in. "Leave?" he said, dumbly.

"I'm sorry. We can't do this any more."

"Do this any more? What does that even mean?"

"I mean that...we have to stop this."

"Stop what?"

There was a moment of silence, before, in a stronger voice Aziraphale said, "Us. You're not stupid."

"What?" Crowley snapped.

"You're not stupid. You don't want me. You can't possibly want me."

"What the hell do you even mean?" Crowley growled, frustrated.

"You're a clever man. A working class boy made good. I was born with a silver spoon in my mouth, never had to work for anything. We should be enemies. We have nothing in common."

Crowley flinched a little, but replied, "But we do."

"No we don't," came the voice. 

Crowley paused, feeling the rage burning in his chest. "We're on our side!"

"There is no our side!"

"Come out here and tell me that!" he screamed. "Or do you think you're too good to do that?"

Aziraphale paused. He sighed and with great pain in his voice said, "I can't love you. How can someone like me love you. I don't even... Like you."

Crowley felt something inside him snap. 

"I have fucked my career for you! I have fucked it all up! And now you're refusing to even come out? Fuck you, Aziraphale, I am not your bit of rough! I am no one's bit of rough! You think you're better than me? How fucking dare you!"

"I...I forgive you." 

"Oh, you forgive me? For being fucking scum? Well, I'm unforgivable, then, you fucking hoity toity, superior fucking knob! I'm sick of having to fight to keep you. I'm sick of having to treat us like a dirty little secret. I don't need you. I'm getting out of this city." He hit the door one last time, before screaming, "I'm getting out of his city, and where I'm going, I won't even think about you!"

He got in the Bentley, slammed the door closed, and screeched off. 

*

[1] The kind of Greek around at the time the gospels and much of the New testament was written. I was once told that there were less than 700 separate words to learn in order to read the Gospels.

[2] There is a lot of unpack about this word, but this is the one thing I remember from studying Patristics. Very simply, there was a huge hoo-haw about whether God and Jesus were of the same substance, similar substance or different substance, and what this even meant for Christianity. If you fancy a bad time, look up the “Arian controversy.”

[3] _Malakoi _can, amongst other things, mean ‘soft’, effeminate’ or even ‘weak willed.’ The discussions on how malakoi and arsenokoitai are translated into English, and how much weight should be given to each interpretation is very interesting, if somewhat dispiriting as a queer person.


	11. Compromised

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Hi all! I've been a bit ill this weekend, so apologises for being a bit short in the notes. The whole 'have time off work to get house sorted and write' thing hasn't worked exactly...

Beelzebub couldn't concentrate. Typical Crowley, she thought, he can't just fuck the odd solicitor after a case is closed[1], like Dagon; he has to fuck a client, embarrass everyone and run off like a child having a tantrum. 

She headed down to his old room, now the pupil's room.

Adam was sat at a laptop, recounting what had happened, whilst Pepper and Newton eagerly listened, and Anathema sat silently, listening to them.

"So I was sat there for twenty minutes, trying to smile as they just looked at me. And I could tell they didn't want me there anyway, but they just seemed so annoyed, and every time I tried to say something to make it less awkward, they just shut me up..."

"Don't you all have work to do?" snapped Beelzebub.

They all turned to her. 

"I've got nothing until Ligur is back," argued Pepper.

"And I'm waiting for you," Adam added.

Anathema turned away, and Newton put a hand on her shoulder.

"Anathema, Ligur said you got a visit from our new best friend," said Beelzebub.

"No comment," Anathema replied. 

"Don't give me all that," Beelzebub said, rolling her eyes. "Today has been a complete shit show, and it's not even lunch. I've got half a mind to chuck that twat out of Chambers, with all the trouble! Is this a Chambers, or an American high-school drama?"

Anathema refused to give the obvious reply. Instead she said, "You never told me about your meeting today. How was I supposed to keep everything going when I don't even know what clients you're taking on!"

Beelzebub, as much as she was annoyed, knew that Anathema had a point. "I...should have told you," she admitted.

"And Crowley called up just to scream at me afterwards!"

"That wasn't fair of him," Newton said soothingly, rubbing her back.

"Well, next time I see him I'll give him a kicking for that, " Beelzebub said consolingly. "He can't go around treating people like that."

It was at this point that Ligur walked in, looking unusually rumpled. 

"That fucker threw a bucket of water over me," Ligur glowered. He took his waterlogged phone out of his pocket, and throwing it on the desk in front of him, said, "Anathema, have we got any rice?"

"RIGHT, THAT'S IT!" Beelzebub shouted. "MEETING IN ROOM CN!"

They all began to shuffle out, except for Newton and Anathema.

"Room CN?" he asked.

"She means The Chattering Nun," Anathema explained. "I need a drink."

Newton blushed furiously as he said, "Can I get you one?"

Anathema smiled. "Thanks."

*

Brighton's beach is made of pebbles. They shift under your feet when you try and walk on it, and make every step both difficult and uncomfortable. You sink into the stones and they try and cut into your feet.

Crowley sat on that beach, staring out at the grey sea, watching the tide push and pull those pebbles about.

The sun had set on him long ago. He'd roared out of London, running on adrenaline and rage, but by the time he reached Brighton, the horrific, soul-ripping sadness had set in. 

He sucked at the second bottle of Talisker he'd bought on his way to the beach, and then held it to his chest like a security blanket.

Between his feet, he had the book that Aziraphale had given him the first time they'd met. He hadn't even read it yet, but it had been one of the first things he picked up at the flat. He'd been trying to throw it into the sea for the last half hour, but he hadn't even been able to open the cover without tears pricking at his eyes.

"Excuse me," said a voice behind him, "You got a light?"

Crowley reached into his jacket pocket and pulled out his silver lighter. "Here."

"Thanks mate." The man lit his cigarette, and said, "What's the book?"

"Arthur Machen." Said Crowley, "Early 20th century horror writer. Well, sort of."

"Sounds interesting. Have you ever heard of Lovecraft? He was around at the same time..."

Crowley couldn't bear it. Talking had dislodged the stone in his throat, and he found tears leaking from his face. He let out a cracked sob, and then a howl of pain.

"What..."

"Why can't I have anyone love me?" Crowley cried, "I know I'm a bastard, but I know people much worse than me who have someone love them. And I meet someone, someone who is clever and funny and makes me feel safe and they fucking lie to me and push me away."

"Mate, are you okay..."

"I was ready to fucking move the world for him, and he wouldn't even open the door! What is wrong with me? Why can't I just forget him? I want to throw him into the sea, and I just can't do it. I can't..." Crowley couldn't talk. He broke down into gasping sobs, a torrent of every bad thing which had happened to him over the last 42 years of his life. 

"Is there anyone here with you?" asked the man.

Crowley shook his head and choked out, "I'm...all...alone." 

The man sat down next to him. "Boyfriend troubles?"

Crowley nodded like a child, and more tears fell from his eyes. "I loved him. I never told him, but I loved him. And I thought he loved me too." Crowley took a swig from the bottle and said, "Apparently not. Not enough in common, apparently. Fucking public school toff."

"That sounds hard," said the man, taking the bottle and having a swig. 

"I have thrown my career down the toilet for him," said Crowley, hoarsely. "I was meant to be defending him, y'know, defending him from being fired by his family. But I find out, in front of the deputy head of Chambers, that he's been lying to me. He's been lying and not told me a bunch of stuff he did. And even then, I don't care if he gave money to every gay in London. That's not for him to do, but I don't care. It's the fact he didn't tell me. It's not like they wouldn't find out. And I can't defend him if he's lying. And now... I'm not good enough for him."

"Fuck liars, right," said the man. 

Crowley took the bottle back, and stared at the sea. Something was moving underneath. He watched the wave crash, and suddenly, a thought occurred to him. 

"He's a liar," Crowley said, emotionlessly.

"Yeah, liars at the worst," said the man.

He's a liar," Crowley repeated, this time smiling.

"Err...yes..."

"So...he lies. When he has something to hide."

"That's what lying is," said the man, annoyed.

"And he lies to his family. Especially his family."

"Look, do you want a shag or not?" the man snapped angrily.

"No! Yes! Sort of!" He grabbed the man's arm and jabbered, "He lied to me, so it's something to do with this family! So, his family probably got a call after that meeting... I'm an idiot! A complete idiot!" Crowley laughed manically, "He lied because they know! About us! He lied because they figured us out!" Crowley kissed the man and shouted, "WE'RE IDIOTS!"

Crowley grabbed the book and put it in his inside pocket, before pushing himself up on the shingle. He took the bottle of whisky from the man, and half sashayed, half waddled across the stones back to the raised pavement. 

Crowley realised after his second failed attempt to get back up that he was, perhaps, a bit too drunk to drive. 

He zigzagged past taxis and groups of people out drinking, back to where he had parked the Bentley, and crawled into the back seat. He lay on his back, and after a final swig of the Talisker he switched his phone back on, whereupon it buzzed and pinged with what seemed like hundreds of missed calls and messages and emails. 

He ignored them, and called Aziraphale. He was immediately met with a generic voicemail message, and cursed it. Once it beeped, he said, "Aziraphale, it's me, Crowley. I'm sorry. I shouldn't have shouted yesterday. I miss you so much already. I...I think I love you. No. I know I love you. I'm going to come by the shop tomorrow. If you don't want me, I'll go away, you will never have to see me again, but if you do want me, we can fix this. You don't have to be scared of your family, you don't have to put up with their bullshit. You are so much more than them...Mind how you go." 

He ended the message, and realised how very tired he was. He turned his phone off again, dropping it on the floor of the Bentley, before sliding into a drunken sleep.

*

The Celestes, as a family, always were early risers. Early to bed and early to rise makes and man healthy, wealthy and wise, as Aziraphale's father used to say. Which was a pity, because rising early certainly does not make one feel healthy, wealthy or wise when one has slept fitfully, waking up every hour because of the absence of a certain barrister. It was 4am when he decided that it wasn't worth trying to sleep any more. 

The morning routine seemed very hollow that morning. It was easier, technically, because he didn't have a half-asleep Crowley grabbing at him if he tried to get up, or getting in the way when sorting out the tea things, but that did little to console him. 

It took Aziraphale some time before he could bear to look at his phone. There was only one missed call, and a voicemail message. Both from Crowley. 

He felt utterly wretched. Aziraphale had to be doing the right thing. It had to be, because it hurt so much. 

He would co-operate with Sandalphon and Uriel. He would do as he was told, and he would be forgiven for his indiscretions. Aziraphale wasn't like Crowley. He wasn't strong like that. Aziraphale was soft. And being soft meant yielding to those who had his best interests at heart. 

He would yield and he would be forgiven. That's what he relied on, being adaptable, and affable and nice. Crowley couldn't understand that. Some people are built to fight, and others...not. 

Aziraphale needed to fight himself, his urges. And nothing would help more than hearing how much Crowley hated him now. Or hoped he hated him. It would make things easier.

Aziraphale rang his voice mail: You have one new message. BEEEEEEP: " "Aziraphale, it's me, Crowley. I'm sorry. I shouldn't have shouted yesterday. I miss you so much already. I...I think I love you. No. I know I love you. I'm going to come by the shop tomorrow. If you don't want me, I'll go away, you will never have to see me again, but if you do want me, we can fix this. You don't have to be scared of your family, you don't have to put up with their bullshit. You are so much more than them...Mind how you go." 

Suddenly, Aziraphale was drowning in ice-cold panic. No, Crowley wasn't meant to do this. He wasn't meant to still...no. He couldn't. He was meant to run. As fast as he could. Aziraphale replayed the message:

_I...I think I love you. No. I know I love you._

Crowley couldn't love him, could he? It's wasn't possible. Their tryst was all lust and friendship and shared bottles of wine and listening to music and working out ways forward. Love wasn't that. Love was hard and difficult and putting your own feelings aside for the greater good. But the way Crowley said it, he sounded so certain what it meant.

_if you do want me, we can fix this._

Of course he wanted it. Of course he did. He wanted Crowley. He wanted to hold him, to take him by the hand and never have to let go. But that didn't mean that it could be fixed. 

_You don't have to be scared of your family, you don't have to put up with their bullshit._

Aziraphale loved his family. And they knew what was good for him. He had always been a coward. So why did this suddenly make sense? 

Aziraphale played the message on repeat, each time the words solidifying more and more in his mind

_Aziraphale, it's me, Crowley...I...I think I love you. No. I know I love you. I'm going to come by the shop tomorrow... if you do want me, we can fix this. You don't have to be scared of your family, you don't have to put up with their bullshit. You are so much more than them...._

_it's me, Crowley... I love you... I'm going to come by the shop tomorrow... You don't have to be scared...you don't have to put up with their bullshit...._

_...I love you... You don't have to be scared...you don't have to put up with their bullshit...._

_...I love you... You don't have to be scared..._

_...I love you..._

_...we can fix this..._

_...I love you..._

_  
...we can fix this.._

_...I love you..._

Aziraphale heard a knock on the door downstairs. He said he was coming by the shop! He'd left the message quite late, so maybe he hadn't slept? 

_...we can fix this..._

_...I love you..._

_  
...we can fix this.._

He slipped his phone into his pocket and bounded down the stairs. "I'm here, I'm here" he cried out excitedly, as he unlocked the door.

_...I love you..._

_  
...we can fix this..._

Aziraphale's heart descended into a big black pit.

"M... Michael." He stuttered.

Before he knew what was going on, he was pinned against the wall.

"We've been learning some disturbing things about you, Aziraphale," snarled Michael.

"Ah, Sandalphon, Uriel... you're here to...it's a bit early for all this..."

"You've been a bit of a disgrace, haven't you? Consorting with your lawyer?"

"W...well I wouldn't say consorting..."

"Don't think that your boyfriend in the dark glasses can help you now," Uriel purred.

"Aziraphale, it's time for you to choose who you want to be." Michael shoved him towards the door.

"I...I actually have been giving that a lot of thought, the whole 'who I want to be' thing, and I think perhaps I been relying on you all far too much and perhaps it's time for me, as a Celeste, to start making my own choices..."

Michael, clearly frustrated with Aziraphale's mile-a-minute speech, grabbed him by the shoulder and hustled him towards the car.

"Aziraphale, it's time for us to take you home," Michael said in a voice that was almost kind. "This has gone on long enough. Get in the car."

Before he knew what was going on, Aziraphale had been man-handled into the car, and the door slammed. Immediately, and with quiet efficiency, the vehicle started rolling.

"W...wait, where are you taking me?" What on earth is going on..."

"We're taking you to Heathrow," said Michael, "Gabriel wants to talk to you before he puts you in therapy."

"Therapy? Why would I need therapy?"

"For your...fixation."

"My fixation...this is preposterous! I demand to be let out!" Aziraphale tried to open the door, but it wouldn't budge. 

"Please, Aziraphale, you need to stop," said Michael, in the voice of a parent tired of dealing with a toddler.

"N...no! I think you need to stop!" Aziraphale shot back.

"Oh, you suddenly think you're the big man here," sneered Michael. "You need to sit yourself down before I make you sit down."

Aziraphale sat back down immediately and hated himself for it. 

"Now, Aziraphale, I have been doing some research on your little boyfriend, and I've found out some very interesting things." She held a tablet in her hand, with her notes on. "So, first of all, his real name isn't Anthony J Crowley. His real name is Timothy O'Crawley." Her fingers danced over the screen, as it skipped from a copy of a birth certificate to a copy of a deed poll, "Changed his name at 18. Did he tell you about that?"

"No," pouted Aziraphale, feeling very stupid.

"Of course not," Michael smirked, "Why would he tell you his real name? Must think you're a real mug. That said, there wasn't much under O'Crawley, just that he was brought up by a single mum, no name on the birth certificate for the father, and grew up on the Donnfield Estate in Tower Hamlets. Ugh, it looks horrible, all crime and poverty. And that's a council estate, Aziraphale, not like the estate we grew up on."

"I'm not stupid, Michael."

"You could have fooled me. You don't even know your boyfriend's real name," she laughed. "Now, let's see...ah, yes, grants to go to University, really excelled there, won prizes...I think you already know about that, I mean O'Crawley doing well at Cambridge..."

"Crowley," Aziraphale corrected. He put his hand in his pocket, and hoped the buttons he was pressing were to make a call. 

"Now, I've tried to find out about his sexual history, that's a bit more difficult, but going through social media I can only find references to girlfriends. Do you know what that means?"

"You've told me he grew up poor, changed his name before university, and he's slept with women before," Aziraphale replied, "Those are hardly the crimes of the century."

"it means he's untrustworthy. He's sleeping with you for your money."

"I think that's rather a leap," replied Aziraphale.

"I think you're very innocent, Aziraphale," Michael replied, her face a picture of annoyance. "He's a snake."

"I think you should let me go back to the shop." Aziraphale was sure the phone was calling someone. He hoped they'd call back when they saw the missed call. 

"No. You will be getting on a plane to New York in...oh...two hours, and you will do the therapy to stop you acting like this."

Aziraphale raised an eyebrow. "Is that's what your enforcers are here for?" He shot a glance at Sandalphon and Uriel, who had been watching the spat. 

"They're here to make sure you understand the gravity of the situation" Michael replied. "I don't think you really understand how your silly games have been affecting us."

Suddenly, Aziraphale's phone began to ring. Aziraphale grabbed it and answered before anyone knew what was going on. "Good Morning, Aziraphale Celeste here..."

*

Anathema was in Chambers kitchen when she got the call. Newton had come in early, and was helping her set up the coffee station for the morning. 

When she noticed the missed call, she called back quickly. "Angel, why are you calling so early? Is Crowley with you?"

"Anathema, lovely to hear from you," Aziraphale replied theatrically. "I'm afraid that we will need to cancel next week. I'm...err...with Michael. I'm going to Heathrow right now."

"Heathrow?" Anathema froze. "Why?"

"I'm on a plane to New York in two hours." Aziraphale sounded shifty. "Sudden family emergency."

Anathema had a sudden suspicion. "Aziraphale, where's Crowley?"

"I'm afraid I haven't seen him," he replied.

"Eerrrmm.... Aziraphale, if you're in trouble please say...err..."

_Tickety-boo_, mouthed Newton

_Tickety-boo?_ She mouthed back at him, before saying aloud, "Say ‘tickety-boo’."

"Everything is tickety-boo. Very tickety-boo," Aziraphale replied. 

"Do not get on that plane. We're going to get you."

"Thank you, Anathema. We'll talk soon." The phone clicked off. 

Anathema looked horrified. "Newton, fuck, they're taking Aziraphale to America! We've got to stop them..."

"Wait, Anathema, what's going on?" asked Newton.

"Aziraphale...his family are religious nuts. They've found out about him and Crowley and I don't know what they're going to do to him. Fuck."

"But if he's going of his own accord..."

"He isn't! I know he isn't. We need..." Anathema trembled and picked up her phone again. 

*

Crowley had only just turned his phone back on when he got the call.

"Christ it's early, Anathema," he groaned, sitting up in the backseat of the Bentley, "What are you calling for? Ready to give me my marching papers?"

"Crowley, cut the bullshit. It's Aziraphale."

"What?" Crowley moaned, genuinely confused.

"I just got a call from him. He's being taken to America by his family. They know about you two and I think they've gone nuts. I don't know what they want with him, but it isn't good."

"Oh fuck." Crowley suddenly felt very awake and very sober. He clambered over into the driver's seat, limbs moving improbably. "I'm on my way. Do you know where they've taken him?"

"Heathrow, he's due to get on a plane in two hours."

"Oh fucking hell Anathema, I'm in Brighton!" He settled himself into the seat.

"Brighton? Why the fuck are you in Brighton?"

"I'm here for the weather, why the fuck do you think I'd be in Brighton?"

"Well, get your ass to Heathrow right now," she hissed.

Crowley put the phone on speaker, and opened up the sat-nav, "Do...you even know which Terminal...fuck it, it doesn't matter. I'm on my way."

NOTES:

[1] Apparently this is a common enough occurrence that the Bar Council previously released a paper explaining the ethical ramifications of this (see question 27 <https://www.barcouncil.org.uk/media/42898/faq_s.pdf>)

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I'm planning another update Wednesday/Thursday, so we won't be left here too long!
> 
> Also, I seem to be averaging at around 4000 words a chapter - is that about the right length for everybody, or would people prefer shorter chapters? I have some shorter chapters, but just trying to get a better idea for a posting schedule!


	12. We're leaving with the big sky

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Hi Folx - so,this whole 'mid-week publishing' thing didn't happen. Totally my fault, I did not count on having both a physical and mental health crash, so spent a lot of time being asleep and Not Doing What I Was Meant To Be Doing. 
> 
> That said, second time lucky? I should have time to edit and put together the aftermath tonight! For a Monday/Tuesday(ish) posting.

"Thank you Anathema. We'll talk soon." Aziraphale ended the call. 

Michael viciously grabbed the phone out of his hand and shoved it in her pocket. "What do you think you're doing?" she snapped.

"I was answering a call," replied Aziraphale sulkily.

"I'm taking your phone." 

"What am I meant to read?" he protested.

"Aziraphale, I know for a fact that you have at least three books on your person right now," Michael sighed.

Aziraphale reached into one of his pockets, and sullenly pulled out a slim volume of poetry. "I've already read it," he pouted. 

"Well, read it again."

*

Anathema put her head in her hands. Then, words tumbling out of her mouth between shallow breaths, she garbled "What on earth am I meant to do? Should we get in a car, where do we even get a car..."

Newton put his hand on her shoulder. "No. Mr Crowley is on his way, we don't need two people at the airport. The most important thing is to work out which flight he's meant to be on. Then, I think I can cancel their tickets."

"You can what?" she said, impressed.

"I read a Vice article on it once[1]," he explained. "Most carriers have legacy systems, so all you need to do is to open up a back channel and get a bot to look up tickets under a certain name. Send through a request to cancel, and they can't get on!"

"Newton, that's the dumbest...let's give it a go!" She grabbed him by the wrist, and they ran down the stairs to her office. 

Once there, Newton pulled his ancient, practically steampowered laptop out of his bag, and switched it on. It made a sound like a million programmers being mildly inconvenienced as it slowly loaded up.

"Come on Bessie, don't fail me now," he smiled at the computer, "You've got an important job to do."

"Do you name everything you own?" Anathema asked.

"Not everything," replied Newton, "Just the things I need to sweet-talk - while she's loading, can you look up flights to New York from Heathrow in the next two hours? We're going to need to narrow this down."

Anathema did as instructed, tapping the details into her phone as quickly as she could. After a few moments, she said, "Right, the only two I can see are a 8:45 American Airlines flight, and a 9:30 British Airways one."

"Okay, that makes it a lot easier." Newton smiled, cursing his laptop’s pre-millennial speed.

"They're both from Terminal 3" she said, smiling, "So now we know where Crowley needs to go!"

She held out her hand to Newton to high-five. He reached out, and took her hand instead. They looked at each other, horrified for a moment, before she broke it off.

“I’ll…call him,” she said, flatly.

He picked up immediately. "Anathema, any news?" She could hear the engine roar in the background, "I've tried calling Aziraphale, but all I’m getting is voicemail."

"We've worked out which terminal he's at. Terminal 3." There was the noise of the engine screaming and a loud screeching of tyres. "Jesus Christ, Crowley..."

"Getting in the right lane, Anathema. What time do you think it is?"

"The earliest one is 8:45."

"Fuck, that gives me just under an hour," Crowley said through gritted teeth.

"Newton is trying to buy you some time," replied Anathema, "He thinks he can cancel their tickets."

"Since when was Newton an elite hacker?" asked Crowley.

"It's something to do with backdoors, I don't know if we can, but it's worth a try," she replied. 

"Right now, that's good enough for me," replied Crowley. "I'm going to get off the line in case he calls, but let me know if Newton cancels those tickets."

"Okay, Bessie is ready for action!" Newton grinned, trying to act suave. "I'm just getting the proxy set up, then I’’ll need to see if I can still log in…"

Anathema’s brows knitted together in confusion. “Log in as what?”

*

Crowley sighed. His last best hope was Newton, a man who was couldn't be trusted to send an email, cancelling someone else’s plane tickets.

Sometimes, though, you have to make your own luck. 

"Right, Mary[2], you need to get a grip on yourself," he said aloud, "Because we're going to have to floor it."

He opened the glove compartment and quickly looked at the disks in there. Joy Division, The Velvet Underground, didn't he have something more upbeat...

And there it was.

_Queen's Greatest Hits, Volume I._

He quickly opened the grubby, cracked jewel case, and shoved the CD in the player.

He made sure he was in fifth gear, and put his foot down on the accelerator. The guitars kicked in, and the drums began to beat, and Crowley bellowed a threatening prayer to the gods of the roads alongside Freddie Mercury, _"Fear me you lords and lady preachers! I descend upon your earth from the skies, I command your very souls you unbelievers,"_ The speedometer's needle shook as it pushed up past 70, past 80, past 90...with hellfire in his eyes he screamed, _"Bring before me what is miiiiiine...."_

*

Aziraphale was making this difficult, even by his own standards. 

First, it was the humming. As he sat reading his poetry, he absentmindedly hummed the same few bars over and over again. First of all it was just a quiet hum under his breath, but then, after a while he started tapping his foot in time. 

Michael was growing more and more annoyed by him. She started by throwing meaningful glaces at him, to which he was oblivious. Then she started clearing her throat. Aziraphale would stop for a few minutes, then start up again. _Du do do du du du. Tap tap tap tap tap_. Repeated. Ad infinitum. 

"Stop that!" she snapped.

Aziraphale looked up from his book. "Stop what?"

"That humming. Stop it!"

"Oh, was I humming?" he asked innocently. 

"Yes you were," she growled. 

"Oh, must have been the album I was listening to yesterday," he smiled, "Some electronic beat group...The Pet Shop Boys. They're quite catchy."

Michael narrowed her eyes. "Stop it."

*

Crowley turned up the volume on Another One Bites the Dust, so he couldn't hear the engine. As he did, he got another call through.

"Crowley, you'll need to get through security," Anathema said emphatically, "You're now the proud owner of a one-way flight to Paris, leaving from Terminal 3 today."

Crowley hadn't even though that far ahead. "Thanks Anathema, I owe you one."

"Actually, you owe me 34. 34 pints[3] that is."

"Not all at once, I hope. How is Pulsifer doing?"

"He's err…logging in."

“Into what?”

Crowley heard Newton in the background shouting, “His password is still ‘password1’?”

"Well, good luck hacking the mainframe. I'm at Leatherhead. Why is there so much Leatherhead? Who looked at Leatherhead and thought, we definitely need more of that?[4]" There was silence. "I'm getting off the line. Let me know if he calls."

*

Once they were out, Uriel and Sandalphon frogmarching Aziraphale along, he kept trying to stop at the check-in desks.

"But we need to check in!" he kept saying, "We need to make sure we're checked in so we can get on the flight!"

"No we don't," Michael snarled, getting more irritated by the minute, "I've already checked us in online."

"Could I at least get something to eat before we get on the flight? I had barely finished my tea before you ruffians came in!"

"Aziraphale, the last thing you _ever_ need is something to eat," Michael sneered.

"But I will be very, very grumpy if I don't," he said, with a hint of malicious glee in his eye, the kind reserved only for the youngest child of a family when winding up their older sibling.

"Ugh, fine, we'll get something in the lounge." Michael rolled her eyes. "How on Earth anyone puts up with you, I don't know."

Aziraphale smiled a brittle, victorious smile. 

*

“Call Aziraphale,” said Crowley, trying to say the words with an approximation of received pronunciation.

The phone rang, as Freddie sang _“But I'm ready, yes, I'm ready for you_

_I'm standing on my own two feet…”_

*

The bot was furiously generating numbers, going at a pace neither Newton nor Anathema could keep up with. 

"What's it doing?" Anathema moaned.

"It's going through every permutation of flight numbers with the surname 'Celeste' to see if it can find something." Newton said, eyes fixed on the screen, "I've never done this before, so it'll be interesting to see if it works."

"Wait, you never..."

"I mean, I built the bot. But this is the first time I used it."

The laptop began to crackle. 

*

Then, there was security.

Michael had thought that their lack of luggage would mean that they would get through quicker. Uriel, Sandalphon and Michael put their mobile phones, keys and wallets in a plastic tray, as well as Aziraphale's phone, and put it on the conveyor belt. Sandalphon held Aziraphale by the wrist, to make sure he knew not to grab for them.

Michael walked through the metal detector first, making sure to pocket Aziraphale's phone immediately afterwards, before nodding to Sandalphon to let him go. 

Aziraphale straightened his coat and tugged on his waistcoat. He walked through the scanner, and was instantly met with a loud beeping. 

"Oh dear," he deadpanned. He stepped back, and as a security guard came over, dramatically patted his stomach and jingled the chain attached to his watch. "Silly me. Forget to take this off."

He removed it carefully, slowly sliding it from the buttonhole, taking care not to pull the fabric, and delicately ran the chain through his manicured fingers. Michael felt her head pulse with frustration each second Aziraphale fiddled with the chain. He placed it on a plastic tray, and tried walking through again. 

The machine beeped again. 

"Ah, what could it be this time..." Aziraphale patted his trouser pockets and pulled out a handful of loose change. He purposefully placed each coin, one by one, on the tray, before trying to go through the scanner again. 

The machine beeped insistently. "Ah, looks like they've got me again!" he chuckled. 

"What is it?" she hissed. "What have you got on you now?"

The security guard, now rather frustrated, stopped Aziraphale from going through the process again, and indicated, in no uncertain terms, that he would need to be patted down. After the longest thirty seconds Michael had experienced that day (and she had been in a car with her little brother), the security guard pulled the keys for the shop from his waistcoat pocket. 

"I don't want to know," Michael sighed. "We are getting on this plane if it kills me."

There was an announcement over the tannoy. "We are sorry to announce that all flights to the United States will now be delayed by three hours..."

*

**BANG.**

Newton's laptop gently fizzed.

"What have you done?" Anathema asked, grabbing a fire extinguisher.

"I don't know!" Newton flapped, "I don't know!"

"Get out the way!" Anathema sprayed the laptop liberally with foam.

"I only meant to blow the bloody doors off!" Newton joked, trying to lighten the mood. 

"We didn't cancel the tickets!" Anathema snapped, "Okay, we need a plan B now..." she checked her phone, and refreshed the page on flights. As she did, she let out a giggle. "Oh my God..."

"What is it?" asked Newton.

"All the planes are delayed by three hours!" She grabbed him by the shoulders, and laughing manically she said, "I don't know what you did, but you've messed up all the flights! I could kiss yo..."

In a single movement Newton grabbed her by the waist and kissed her. 

Just as quickly, he stepped away. "Oh, Anathema, I'm sorry..." 

Anathema looked shocked, starting at his rapidly reddening face. "I wasn't expecting it..."

"Anathema, I'm sorry..."

"...I didn't say I didn't like it," she smiled. 

Newton was a shade of molten lava. They stared at each other for a moment, hearts beating like mad, trying to figure themselves out. After what felt like an age, Anathema picked up her phone.

*

The Bentley had been complaining for the last ten miles. Crowley knew that it couldn't really take this speed for this long, but he couldn't stop now. He had twenty minutes to get down the M4, and through the ring road, park, and get into the airport. 

Crowley, for his part, hadn't really considered what he would do at the airport, but he knew he had to get there, find Aziraphale, talk to him, convince him...convince him to stay. 

A call came through, "I've got good news and bad news," said Anathema.

"Bad news first," Crowley groaned.

"The bad news is that Newton didn't cancel the tickets, but, but, the good news is that he did ground all US flights for the next three hours."

"Pulsifer, you beautiful bastard!" Crowley punched the air. "I'm almost there... Any news from Angel?"

"Nothing yet."

"I'll get off the line..." Crowley ended the call, suddenly feeling very sad. A few seconds later, he sighed and said, “Call Aziraphale.”

*

If Michael had any patience this morning, she had long ago lost it. Sandalphon and Uriel sat either side of Aziraphale, uselessly watching her as she paced. "This can't be happening..."

"It's just a delay" said Aziraphale, happily, "Just three hours, plenty of time to appreciate the lounge..."

"Aziraphale, I am glad that you find simple pleasures in life, but some of us have actual work to do. I'm going to talk to the staff here. Sandalphon, keep an eye on him." Michael stormed off, Uriel following close behind. 

Aziraphale and Sandalphon's eyes met. Aziraphale, eyes locked on his, reached for a nearby paper. He opened it up for find it was the Telegraph, and made a face like he'd just picked up a wet towel. Then, gingerly turning the pages, a horrible, animalistic smile crept across his face.

"Mr Sandalphon, do you like the cryptic crossword? I hope so, because we are going to have _so much fun_ the next, ooh, 12 hours or so. Look at this one - _in 24 hours the Spanish can create a hold up**[5]**?_ Hmmm, not sure how to solve this one..." Aziraphale looked at the horror in the man's face as he tried to ignore his guilt at torturing him, "...but while we are here, I think I'm going to get us something to eat and drink. I'm famished."

Sandalphon smiled like a trout on a hook. "B...black Coffee please."

"I'll be back in two ticks," Aziraphale grinned. 

Aziraphale had eyed the buffet from the moment he had been marched into the lounge. Oh, he wasn't lying exactly about being hungry; his stomach was starting to remind him that he'd been too miserable to eat last night, but what was more important right now was the phone on the wall. 

He walked up to the young lad supervising the buffet and said, "Good Morning! I'm afraid that I've managed to forget my mobile telephone, but need to make a quick call to my lawyer. Could I avail myself of your one?"

The young man nodded and said, "it's 9 to dial out."

"Thank you." Aziraphale smiled a tight smile that didn't reach his eyes. 

*

Anathema was kissing Newton when her phone rang. She pushed him away gently, then as soon as she saw who it was, pushed him off her and on to the floor.

"Angel!"

"Anathema!"

"Angel, are you okay?"

"Yes, yes, I'm fine. I'm in the business class lounge. All the planes out are delayed..."

"...By three hours, yes," Anathema finished.

"Please tell Crowley that I'm sorry," he sighed, "He said he'd go to the shop today, and I'm not there."

"Angel, you're an idiot. He's on his way to Heathrow right now. I called him after I got your call this morning."

"Oh." Aziraphale was stunned for a moment. "He is?"

"Of course he is! I think I can get you through to him."

Aziraphale was silent for a moment before whispering, "I would like that, if you can."

*

_Save, save, saaaaaave meeeeee_   
_I can't face this life alone_

Crowley's phone was ringing again. He answered it, "Any news?"

_Save, save, saaaaaave meeeeee _  
_I'm naked and I'm far from home..._

"It's Aziraphale. He's on the phone."

  
Crowley quickly turned the music off. "Put him on, put him on!"

There were a series of clicks before he heard a voice nervously say, "Hello?" Crowley was suddenly struck dumb. "Can you hear me?"

"Yea...yeah I can hear you," Crowley answered, "I'm almost at Heathrow. I'm coming for you."

"Thank you." Aziraphale was quiet for a moment and said, "I've made quite a mess of things, haven't I?"

"Yeah," Crowley replied, "You have."

"I...I didn't mean it," Aziraphale hesitated, "What I said yesterday."

"I thought you didn't."

"Did...did you mean it?" Aziraphale asked.

"When I left the shop?"

"No, not that. Your voicemail."

Crowley paused for a heartbeat, feeling like his skin was about to peel off. "Yes."

"Good." Aziraphale tried to sound casual as he said, "I love you too."

"Don't you dare get on that plane," he growled, "Don't you dare! I'm coming to the business lounge. I should be there in ten minutes."

"Crowley, I love you."

"Aziraphale, for heaven's sake, I'm going to crash if you say that again!" Crowley grinned, "Love you too."

*

Aziraphale put the phone down, and smiled to himself. This awful day was improving by the minute. He helped himself to a cup of coffee and some hot water with a teabag in it, and walked back out to where Sandalphon was sitting. 

Sandalphon was slumped in the armchair, looking like he might discorporate from sheer embarrassment. Aziraphale could see why immediately. 

Michael was at a desk, screaming at the poor attendant behind it, "This is utterly disgraceful! We have paid so much for these tickets and we're going to miss our connection. Do you have any idea how much business we do with this company..."

Aziraphale passed the two cups to Sandalphon and said, “I’ll speak to her.”

"Ma'am,” pleaded the attendant, who was trying to remain professional whilst clearly on the edge of an anxiety attack, “I understand that you're upset, but due to the servers crashing, all planes to the US are going to be grounded for the next three hours..."

"Oh, blame a computer for all this... idiocy! This is mis-management pure and simple; I demand to see your manager!"

"I'm afraid my manager is trying to get through to head office..."

Aziraphale put his hand firmly on Michael's shoulder. "Michael, calm down! She's just doing her jo--"

Michael swivelled around, wild-eyed with fury and screamed, "And you just need to shut up!"

Then, before either of them knew it, she slapped him. _Hard. _

The sound of the slap reverberated around the packed lounge. Somehow, despite it just being a slap, it drowned out the sounds of coughing, children crying and general chaos.

Suddenly all eyes were on them.

Aziraphale and Michael stared at each other, the only sound their heavy breaths as they processed what had just happened. Aziraphale stared in shock, Michael’s face ticking between different expressions, anger, fear, horror, spite, shock, anger…

Then, Aziraphale's eyes narrowed, just slightly, as he smoothed his bow tie and pulled at the edge of his waistcoat. "I don't have to take this", he said quietly. He spun on his heels, and stalked away. 

"Come back here!" Michael screamed at him, having lost any semblance of plot, "COME BACK HERE!"

Aziraphale kept on walking, refusing to look back. Michael chased after him, grabbing at his coat. Aziraphale didn't stop moving, dragging Michael along with him, his pace only slowing slightly. She tried to dig her heels in, but he kept moving, determined.

As they reached the entrance, Michael was joined by Uriel and Sandalphon, who were in turn trying to pull her off him. 

"Let go," Aziraphale commanded.

"No, you are coming with me," Michael hissed.

"Michael, stop this immediately."

"No! You need to come with me, get on this plane and stop being such a big fat idiot." She fought, half-desperate, half-disbelieving he was disobeying her.

"No,” he stated, his voice firm, “I'm leaving."

"No!" she yelped, pulling harder.

"Let go, you're going to rip it..."

"If you don't get back here right now, then I'll... I'll take you to court!" Michael screamed.

Aziraphale turned around. Sandalphon and Uriel let go of Michael, who fell to the floor. 

"Oh, you will?" he asked, a smile playing on his lips.

"I'll take you to court and sue you for everything you've got!" she shouted, sitting up.

"Are you sure..." said Uriel, quietly.

Aziraphale felt a slim, cold hand on his shoulder. 

"Not...without...his...legal counsel," Crowley puffed, his face as red as his hair. 

"Crowley!"

"Hello Aziraphale..." Crowley tried to get his words out as casually as possible, no fear and panic in his voice, but before he could say anything he thought could be witty, Aziraphale kissed him.

Crowley had kissed him many times. Those kisses had been desperate, loving, forcefully, soft, powerful, all many different words for poets to write about, but this kiss, this kiss was different. It was a kiss of certainty. A kiss of deliberation. A kiss that said, in no uncertain terms that Aziraphale had chosen him. A kiss of pride, a kiss that would kiss him, and would make no concessions to what God, Hell or any human being alive or dead thought of him. If Crowley had ever thought Aziraphale had been certain of anything before, it was nothing compared to the certainty of this kiss. 

When they broke away, Aziraphale stood up straight, like a ship releasing its sheets to the wind. "Now, what was that about suing me?"

Crowley had only seen glimpses of this Aziraphale before, buried alive under anxiety and sadness and propriety, but now he was here; practically glowing with certainty.

Michael glowered with hatred and disgust. "How dare you do that here! Where people can see!"

"What, kiss my boyfriend?" Aziraphale smiled, taking hold of Crowley's hand. "Kiss the man who loves me?"

"You, you, you, yoooou…” then, suddenly, whatever had been holding Michael together snapped. She yelled “Degenerate!" You shameless degenerate!” She breathed and years of hurt and frustration bubbled from her mouth, “You've never followed the rules in your life! You've been given chance after chance to be better, and you refuse! You just do as you like and kiss another man! In front of everyone! And what about me? I do everything I’m told and I'm still here, picking up after you! Cleaning up your mess! Why the...hell...are you so special? I hate you! I hate you!" Fat, round tears started to run down her face, "Mother always loved you best. She spoiled you, turning you into a fat lazy idiot. Father always protected you. Gabriel took up protecting you after he died. And nobody ever protected me. Nobody ever looked after me like they look after you, and you still throw it back in everyone's faces. Why are you so special? Nobody ever loved me like they loved you, and I hate it! I hate it! And I've always been good. I've always been so good. You've never had to be good. I hate you. I hate you. I hate you so much--" And with that, she was unable to speak, angry sobs wracking her body like she was trying to cough up a hairball of hate.

Crowley held Aziraphale's hand tight, to stop him going to her, and met eyes with Sandalphon and Uriel. For better or for worse, they would need to do their jobs now. 

"Alternative Dispute Resolution?" he said, emotionlessly, to Uriel, who was attempting to comfort Michael.

"Yeah," Uriel replied, in shock, "I'll get someone to sort out the paperwork at the office."

"Crowley... Michael..." Aziraphale's fire was gone, replaced with softness, "Oh Michael I'm so sorry..."

"Go away" she sobbed, "I hate you."

"C'mon Angel," Crowley said, feeling like he'd just witnessed something he shouldn't have, "Let's go."

"W...wait." Aziraphale stood up straight again and looked at Uriel, "Excuse me, my dear, but I will need my mobile telephone and my passport before I go."

Michael pulled them from her pockets and threw them at his feet. "I hate you" she hiccupped, before trying to stand up.

Aziraphale picked up the phone and the passport, and put them in his pockets. "Michael, I forgive you," he replied, speaking very carefully. "I'm sorry that you're hurting right now."

"F--fuck you!" she screamed pathetically.

"Papers in the morning?" asked Sandalphon, refusing to look away from Crowley.

"Yeah," he replied, pulling Aziraphale away, "We get back at it tomorrow."

Crowley and Aziraphale, hands entwined, walked away in silence, not looking back. 

FOOTNOTES

[1] Yes, really. He picked up a hard copy in a pub once, and took it home. <https://www.vice.com/en_us/article/aek83g/global-travel-booking-systems-open-to-fraud-and-abuse>

[2] The name of the car who played the Bentley in the TV series, on which David Tenant broke the door. <http://www.classicbentleycarhire.co.uk/cars/index>

[3] This number is based on the assumption that the average pint is £4 (Christ, I hate how expensive London is).

[4] Although Crowley does not remember this, he is the reason why there is more Leatherhead. His fabulous work on an application to build 900 new homes on the greenbelt area around Leatherhead is part of the reason this journey is taking so long. A work of legal elegance and genius.

[5] If anyone is curious, the answer to this clue is _Delay._ Also, if you would like to see a good intro to Cryptic Crosswords, I would strongly recommend _The Riddle of the Sphinx_ episode of _Inside Number 9._ It’s an anthology series, so you can just pop in and out without losing any plot.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Whoo! So, now thing aren't exactly resolved, but they're decided on? They're on their side now. 
> 
> Please let me know what you think!


	13. The freckles in our eyes

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> "Oh, I'm totally going to writer shorter chapters more often." Thanks past Prism. Thrism. 
> 
> Title taken from Such Great Heights, by The Postal Service, THE lovesong for 2000s Indie/Post Punk kids. I'd apologise, but I'm too busy playing guitar at house parties and trying to work out how tight I can make my jeans before the cut off circulation to my ankles.

They failed to talk to each other all the way back to the Bentley. Aziraphale turned his phone back on, which vibrated madly at every missed call he’d received in the last few hours.

When Aziraphale turned to speak to Crowley, Crowley instead motioned towards the phone, as if to say, _Call Anathema_.

Aziraphale understood, and she picked up immediately. 

"Angel!"

"Anathema, I'm sorry, I meant to call you sooner..."

"Angel, don't worry about that, you're okay?"

"Yes, dear, I'm fine. Crowley came in the nick of time."

"Good! We were so worried! Your family are crazy!"

"Y...yes, they are rather. Thank you for saving me. I can't thank you enough."

"Newton did the difficult bit! I don't know what he did, but he managed to ground all the flights to the US!"

"Newton?"

"One of the pupils here."

"He sounds very clever! I'd ask what he did, but I'm sure I wouldn't understand."

"I don’t think he really knows what he did," Anathema said dreamily, "But I think you'd like him."

"Oh." Aziraphale smiled. He knew that tone. "Well, please thank him for me. Would you two be interested in lunch soon?" He paused, and after a moment of thought said, “I'm sorry, my dear, I haven't been a good friend to you recently."

"You haven't,” Anathema said bluntly, “But I'm still glad to have you.”

“I’m not sure if I can ever thank you or Mr Newton enough for everything--”

“Angel, just go home. We’ll go for lunch soon, right? Oh yes, if Crowley is there, tell him he owes me 34 pints."

"Yes, and I will." Aziraphale smiled. 

"Okay, I've gotta head back to work, but lunch soon?"

"Yes, my dear." Aziraphale ended the call.

By the time the call ended, they’d reached the Bentley. Aziraphale admired the car, but didn’t realise that it was Crowley’s until he leant on it, and took the keys out of his pocket.

"Oh goodness!” Aziraphale gasped in awe. “You drove this all the way from Mayfair?"

"No, I drove this all the way from Brighton[1],” Crowley replied, unsure if it was a brag or a dig.

"Brighton, why on earth were you in Brighton?" Aziraphale asked.

"I'd just been dumped by my boyfriend," Crowley replied, this time very sure it was a dig, "I thought maybe I could pull[2] there."

"Did you?" Aziraphale asked, a little scared of the answer.

"No, just looked at the sea and figured out he was a liar."

Aziraphale looked ashamed. "I'm sorry about that."

"It's fine, I got him back." Crowley smiled. 

"Was it worth it?" Aziraphale said quietly, smoothing down his bow tie.

"I think so." Crowley gave him a kiss on the cheek. "Certainly, to see him call me his boyfriend in front of his homophobic sister and make her break down crying."

Aziraphale turned red and looked away. Crowley opened the passenger seat door of the car. "Get in, Angel."

Aziraphale ignored the open door, and pushing Crowley up against the car with his body, kissed him. "I love you. I…I realised that when I thought I might never see you again. "

"Are you ready to move fast?" asked Crowley, putting his arms around Aziraphale, pulling him closer, "Because I go fast. It's part of what I do."

Aziraphale rested his head on Crowley's chest. "I can't promise to keep up. But I promise to try."

"Good. That's all I need for now." Crowley couldn't resist ruffling his golden curls, as he said, "And no more hiding."

"No more hiding" Aziraphale repeated the words into Crowley's chest. "We couldn't hide even if we wanted to."

"Whatever happens, I'm on your side."

"And I have no idea what I can do, but I'm on your side as well."

Aziraphale clambered into the passenger seat and settled into the leather seat, taking a moment to run his fingers across the varnished mahogany dashboard. "Oh goodness, she's beautiful," he gasped.

"Yep. One of my best ever bad decisions." Crowley smiled as he shut the door on the driver's side.

"Second best, dearest," Aziraphale smiled.

"I do have a thing for queer old-fashioned things," Crowley teased back, "They do tend to be rather…substantive." 

"Built to last, you could say."

"Built for luxury." Crowley kissed Aziraphale tenderly, on the lips, a gentle kiss which soon shifted into something deeper, more passionate. 

Aziraphale held Crowley's face in his hands, as he explored his lover’s mouth with his tongue. They kissed in rhythm, hands and mouths moving with a primal, unrehearsed synchronicity. They felt electrified, giving off sparks, ready to burn if left unchecked. 

Crowley was the one to pull away, Aziraphale pulling at his bottom lip. "Let's get home," he whispered.

"Isn't this fast enough for you?" asked Aziraphale, with a raised eyebrow.

"I can wait a little longer for you," Crowley replied with a grin, "And I want to savour you."

The drive back to Soho was frustratingly long. The Bentley chugged along, making decidedly unhealthy sounds any time Crowley tried to make her go above 40. 

Aziraphale wiggled a little in his seat, somewhere between frustration and contentment, cycling between watching Crowley intently as he drove the car, and staring out the window at the grey-brown suburbia. 

About half an hour into the journey, Aziraphale announced, "I...I realise that I don't know much about you, Crowley."

"What do you mean?" Crowley asked.

"Michael...she told me...she told me that you hadn't always been called Crowley."

Crowley fell his stomach drop. "Oh, that."

"And that you dated women before."

"Ah.” Crowley felt like his stomach had dropped through the floor of the Bentley. “That."

"I mean, neither thing is important," Aziraphale explained quickly, "But I didn't know. Because I had never asked. I feel that I was somewhat remiss."

"I wish-- I wish you hadn't found out the name thing from anyone else." Crowley sighed, eyes on the road, "It hasn't been my name in years."

"I think they must have been desperate for dirt on you," Aziraphale said, "I'm sorry, it's not important..."

"It isn't," Crowley confirmed, "but I suppose I've been trying to prove myself to you--"

"--you never needed to prove yourself to me," Aziraphale interrupted.

"--but I did. I do. We're from very different worlds."

"But we're in the same one now," Aziraphale said, "And I'm very glad of that." He patted Crowley's thigh. Crowley tried very hard to focus on the road.

"I wanted a clean slate," said Crowley, looking forward. "After I left home. I didn't want anything to remind me of where I was from. I didn't want anyone to know me as Creepy O'Crawley any more. Timmy Creepy O'Crawley was the weird kid who grew up in the dark, watching horror films and got gobby[3] with anyone who looked at them the wrong way. Anthony J Crowley? He sounded like someone you didn't mess with. Someone clever. Someone who was dangerous and powerful. At least to 17-year-old me."

"Is that why you applied for Cambridge, to get as far away as you could?"

"To be honest, it started out as a joke. I mean, I did want to study law, but actually I was trying for King's College, London. I didn't even think I'd get an interview for Cambridge. But I had to fill an extra box in for the UCAS form[4]. Sent everything off, and a month later I get an interview. One of the teachers at college gave me money for a coach up and lent me a suit. I still remember my interview. I got asked if I thought the chair I was sitting on was comfortable[5]. I ended up having a row[6] with my future supervisor about what comfortable meant, and how it could apply to a chair. Thought I'd fluffed it, but they gave me an offer." Crowley grinned to himself. "For once being a gobby little shit paid off. After all of that, Anthony J Crowley started to exist. I was still a gobby little shit, but when you dress it up with rhetoric and pizzazz, suddenly it's clever and funny."

"Is that when you started wearing the sunglasses?"

"I...I...yeah, it was actually. To be honest, I still hate bright lights. They give me a headache. But sunglasses make you look cool. Much cooler than someone who asks for the lights to be turned off."

"I have to admit, I'm a little bit jealous." Aziraphale looked at Crowley. "I've never been able to shed my own skin. I've always been a Celeste. Always done what I was told."

"Up until now." Crowley grinned.

"I'm being serious! I've never had the chance to re-invent myself. I hate that you had to leave your home and had to fight to be who you are. But that was what I hoped the Miracle Foundation could be for me. Obviously helping people was the priority, but I hoped that I could show my brothers that I could stand on my own two feet, that I was a man of principles and reason, but I... I forgot that I still had to be a Celeste, at the end of the day."

"But you don't have to be. Not any more."

"I know." Aziraphale smiled mirthlessly. "It's utterly terrifying.”

* * *

The shop felt disappointingly normal, when they got in. 

Perhaps a little less tidy than usual; there were a pile of books by the door that didn't normally live there, a mug of cold tea on the desk, a faint air of having been left quickly, without the normal care.

Aziraphale instantly started to tidy up, as if apologising to the shop. 

Crowley grabbed his wrist, and said, "Come with me." 

Aziraphale followed Crowley up the stairs to the little flat. Once upstairs, he shut the door, slipped off his jacket, and pulled off Aziraphale's coat, throwing them both over the back of the sofa. 

"I want you," Crowley breathed.

"I want you too," Aziraphale breathed back, "I want you so much."

Aziraphale kissed him on the mouth. They started slowly, rhythmically, then sped up, Aziraphale’s hands first delicately holding Crowley’s waist, then pulling him closer to his warm, rounded, sumptuous body. Aziraphale’s kisses started to trail down to his neck. Crowley realised that Aziraphale's hands were holding him with a delightfully firm grip.

Crowley let out a groan as he remembered that as much as Aziraphale was soft and plump, there was a surprising amount of strength underneath. 

"Please...take me to bed."

Aziraphale seemed to understand. He put his arm behind Crowley, and slid his other one behind Crowley's knees. With a grunt of effort Crowley was suddenly up against Aziraphale's body, held close to his soft chest and belly. Crowley felt his body spasm with desire and his mind empty of all thoughts, except one.

Aziraphale carried him to the bed, and put him down gently, with a kiss. Crowley giggled and swooned in the least dignified way possible. Aziraphale's eyes were full of fire as he admired his wonderful, maddening, incorrigible boyfriend. "Let me undress you," he murmured, climbing on the bed.

"Only if I can undress you too," Crowley half-purred, half giggled. 

"Certainly, dearest." A perfect, plump hand started to undo the small resin buttons of his shirt, one by one. As each button released a new territory of pale skin scattered with red hairs, Aziraphale kissed it softly, christening it as his. Crowley found himself gasping at each button, each gasp bigger than the last as Aziraphale approached his trousers. 

At the snakeskin belt, Crowley rebelled. "You're too dressed," he purred, "I need to see your body."

His thin, spidery hands feverishly worked at the buttons on the velvet waistcoat. They were undone with inexpert speed. He pulled the bow tie undone quickly, and then started with the shirt buttons. Each button undone unleashed soft white flesh. He undid them slowly, grinning as he took in Aziraphale's plush body. It was as he reached the widest part of his angel's body that he felt his breath taken away at the view of him. A beautiful curve of a belly, proud, overhanging his trousers just a little; almost feminine hips jutting out either side of him, juicy like forbidden fruit. He cupped those love handles with his bony fingers, which gently sank into that beautiful flesh. 

Aziraphale raised a finger to his lips, his eyes alight with desire. "Quiet, dearest. I have business to attend to." And with that, he undid Crowley's belt.

* * *

An hour later, they were lying together, naked and tangled up in the sheets. Crowley was snuggled up on his Angel's soft chest, one arm underneath Aziraphale, gently gripping him, the other free to roam. 

"I'm not sure what I was expecting," Aziraphale murmured into Crowley's hair, "But that was heavenly..."

"Ngk." Crowley pulled himself closer to Aziraphale, if that was possible. He placed his hand on Aziraphale's belly, and whispered, "You're wonderful."

"Not everyone sees the same thing as you," replied Aziraphale with a kiss on the forehead.

"Well, those people are idiots.” Crowley nuzzled the tummy, so soft, and warm, and so very inviting to one who was the very opposite of those things. “I could just adore you all day,” he drawled hazily. He kissed the curve of Aziraphale’s hips, before lying back on the bed, exhausted and dizzy. 

"I need a cigarette, a coffee, and several shots of whiskey, in that order," said Crowley dreamily, feeling like he wasn't quiet back in his own body. 

"So do I," replied Aziraphale, with the same vagueness. "Oh, we should probably get some food as well! When was the last time you ate?"

Crowley thought about the matter, as if it were a complicated formula. "Err.... yesterday. I think."

Aziraphale grabbed a pillow and half-heartedly hit him with it. "Yesterday!"

"I forgot!” he exclaimed, sitting up. “First I was dumped, then I had to save you!"

Aziraphale's stomach rumbled. He looked a little embarrassed, as Crowley looked up, placed a hand on a softened hip, and said, "We will need to fix that. Can't have you wasting away."

"Yes, me, wasting away," replied Aziraphale, amused, wiggling onto his front so he could wrap his arms around Crowley's slim frame.

Crowley placed his hand on the other hip, squeezing it ever so slightly as he asked playfully, "Where would I put my hands if you wasted away?"

"I don't know," Aziraphale replied, with a smile. "I'll make us some coffee, if you order us some food. I don't feel like leaving the shop today."

"Sounds good." Crowley squeezed Aziraphale's hand. 

Aziraphale turned lazily on his side, and kissed Crowley's cheek. "I'd like that nice Japanese place down the road."

Aziraphale got up, leaving Crowley feeling bereft and cold. He wrapped the blanket around himself, and looked up the place, trying to figure out what he would be able to eat. 

Aziraphale returned with coffee, and they sat together, finishing their drinks. Crowley initially tried to be the one hugging Aziraphale, but after the first ten minutes found himself resting his head on that soft belly. After another five, Crowley had curled up next to Aziraphale, and Aziraphale rested his hand on Crowley's head, absentmindedly playing with his hair. 

They sat together in silence, Crowley with a beatific expression on his face, until they heard knocking at the door to the shop. Crowley practically leapt up and said, "I'll get it," quickly throwing on a dressing gown. 

Aziraphale put on a dressing gown, girding the tie around his waist, and went to the kitchen to grab the bottle of whiskey he kept for guests and long days. He put the bottle on the table with two glasses, and returned to the kitchen to get plates and cutlery. As he sifted through the draw, he noticed a large ceramic spoon. The varnish on it was scratched, and worn, and the pattern was faded, but he knew it. Had known it. What a time for this to turn up, he thought to himself, turning it over in his hands. He didn't want to feel sentiment right now. He wanted to move into the future and never look back. 

He was setting the cutlery on the coffee table, when Crowley bounded back up the stairs. "Right, food is here, time for a whiskey!"

"Alright, my love." Aziraphale placed a careful kiss on Crowley's cheek, and took the boxes from his hands. 

"So...chicken tempura for you, and a serving of rice...and the miso soup for me, and katsu curry and mochi to share."

Crowley sat down on the sofa, and unceremoniously ripped off the lid of the plastic box. Aziraphale took a moment to sit down, still playing with the spoon in his fingers. He sat there, with impossibly good posture, staring at the boxes for a moment.

"Itadakimasu," he whispered, bowing slightly, before carefully opening the miso soup, placing the lid on top of the bigger box below. 

"What’s that?" asked Crowley, eating a piece of deep-fried chicken with his fingers.

"It's a blessing. Sort of. Something you say to thank the person who made the meal." Aziraphale smiled, the whiskey making him nostalgic. "Mother may have been very poor at Japanese, but she made sure we learned enough to be polite.

"Japanese?"

"Can't remember much of it now," Aziraphale chuckled softly, "But I do occasionally try to teach myself a little."

"Why did you need to know Japanese?" asked Crowley, pouring them both a whiskey. 

"We lived there for a year or two. Actually, that's how we know Madam Tracy."

"Wait...you lived in Japan for a year and it's never come up before now?"

"I was only there when I was very young," Aziraphale explained, picking up the glass and taking a sip. "I don't remember much. Mainly the tree in the garden, the walk from school, some things about being with my mother, my brothers leaving..."

"Your brothers leaving?" 

"Yes, they were old enough to go to school. I stayed with my mother and Madam Tracy, until mother started getting ill, a few months later. Then we moved back to England, and by the time mother passed, I was old enough to be sent away for school. Ugh, it was horrible. I remember crying every day from missing her, and homesickness. I stopped crying, eventually, but I still miss her. Even now." Aziraphale seemed strangely small. "I don't think I ever stopped missing her."

"Oh, Angel..." Crowley hugged him.

"Oh, don't fuss." Aziraphale pushed him off, embarrassed, " I'm fine. Really. It was a very long time ago. You learn to be fine." Aziraphale seemed a little resentful of being fine.

"What was she like?" Crowley asked.

Aziraphale put down the whiskey, and drank the soup straight from the container. "I remember her being very fun. I remember singing with her. Even towards the end." He motioned towards the shelf of records with his pot of soup. "Most of those were hers."

Crowley suddenly felt ashamed at having come to such a quick decision about that music collection, and imposing his own taste on Aziraphale. He also became very aware that he had many more questions than answers. He finished his whiskey, and poured himself another glass. "Well, I'll say this for you, Angel, you're not boring."

Aziraphale blushed happily. "That's very kind of you. I suppose in some ways I've had an interesting life. Blessings and a curse."

"It's the way, if you're interesting," smiled Crowley.

Aziraphale finished the soup, and put the container down carefully. "It's been very lonely. You're one of the first people I've met who understands that loneliness."

"Hey, I'm not lonely!"

"Sorry, that was put very badly. What I mean is that you know what it's like to not fit in. "

"Weeelllll... I've never tried to fit in." Crowley swirled his glass around for effect. "Best way to win that game is not to play."

"And I've been trying my best to find my place. Never found it." Aziraphale took another sip of the whiskey, before inexpertly prising the lid off the curry. "Did I ever tell you that I tried to be a priest?"

"No!" Crowley grinned, and then grimaced. "I can't imagine you as a priest."

"Well, you're not the only one." Aziraphale chuckled, sadly. " The whole thing destroyed my faith, for a while."

"You should never see how the sausage gets made."

"Exactly. I saw how the faith sausage was made, and I wanted no part of it. Especially after..." He stopped, and scooping up some of the curry and rice with the spoon said, "Dearest, would you try a little of this? You might be pleasantly surprised."

He held out the spoon, hand underneath to catch any stray grains of rice. 

"Are you sure?" asked Crowley, a little panicked. "I'm really not good with food."

"It's very mild!"

"It's brown!" 

"My mother used to make it. If five-year-old me could eat it, you can at least try it."

Crowley hesitated, but closed his eyes and allowed himself to be fed a small amount. He wasn't sure what he expected, but it was...nice. Fluffy white rice and a thick sauce, like gravy, but very lightly spiced and strangely more-ish. He hated to say he liked it.

"It's all right," he managed, between chews.

"If you like it, I can make it at home. Absurdly simple to make, but needs about three pans. Mother made it when she could guarantee someone else would wash up."

"Somehow, I can't imagine any of your family can wash up." Crowley said, devilishly.

"Well, no, Anathema can attest to that," laughed Aziraphale. "When we lived together at university I'd get her to wash up in exchange for cooking and polishing her shoes. Fair exchange, I think."

"Where did the two of you go to university, anyway?"

"Oxford," said Aziraphale, somewhat uncomfortably.

Crowley almost did another spit-take. "Oxford! Oxford! You've known me for...how long now?...three months, and at no point, at no bloody point, have you called me a Tab[6]!" 

"Well, it would be impolite to remind you that you went to the Other Place[7]," Aziraphale grinned back, "In any case, it's been more of a millstone around my neck than anything else."

"How on earth can Oxford be a millstone!" Crowley exclaimed, "it's... Oxford. Half of Parliament did PPE[8] there!"

"I wasn't a very good student and ended up with a 2:2." He sighed, "I would have been better off getting a Third, or just failing. At least that's a story." He took a despondent bite of his meal, and said, "Not much you can do with a 2:2 in English."

"How come you..."

"Please, Crowley, I don't want to talk about that." Aziraphale was the nearest to angry Crowley had seen him. 

Crowley was a little shocked, but swiftly moved on. "So, after Oxford..."

"Spent a few years being passed between offices of Celeste & Co, before the Foundation was set up." Aziraphale suddenly seemed off his food. "I know, nepotism. I have been very lucky. I was less good at business than I was at being a student. But the Foundation; I liked that. I got to help people. I was able to guide people to the right organisations, and know what difference we were making. Sometimes I was even able to talk my brothers into letting their staff take secondments to charities." Aziraphale leant forward, head in his hands. "Oh God, all I had to do was do as I was told! And I couldn't even do that! People lost their jobs! My staff lost their jobs! Another fine job, Aziraphale!"

Crowley, if he had not understood why Aziraphale had been keeping so much of himself hidden before now, was quickly coming to understand. With Crowley, everything floated to the top; even when he didn't say things, they were obvious. With Aziraphale, everything about him was buried in shame, repression and half-truths. And all Crowley wanted to do was take him by the shoulders, shake him and make him realise that he was beautiful, improbable, ridiculous and sublime. That all this shame did was to hide that wonderful person he was. 

And part of becoming unburied? To stop being so caught up in the past. To make sense of it. To create a narrative and to be able to make it part of you, not run away from it, or let it consume you. 

Crowley had no idea how to do that for himself, let alone anyone else. He downed the rest of his whiskey, and gasping from the burning sensation and said, "You've had a shit time. A really shit time. And we're going to have to change that."

"And how do you propose to do that?" Aziraphale sighed, "Make me an entirely different person?"

"No. We do that by...I need a cigarette..." Crowley spied the skylight over the bed, and grabbing the bottle of whiskey, climbed on the bed, slammed open the window and shimmed out like an eel.

Aziraphale followed quickly behind. "Crowley, what on earth are you doing?"

Looking down from the skylight, Crowley grinned manically. "Having a cigarette! On the roof!"

"Come down here at once!"

"No! Come get me!"

"You're going to get yourself killed!" Aziraphale called out of the skylight.

"No, I won't!" 

Aziraphale sighed, and pulled himself up and through the skylight. "If I end up going through the roof, I am blaming you entirely--" he looked around and gasped. "Oh, the view up here!"

He sat on the edge of the skylight, and saw London lit up in the dark, lights shimmering in the dark, lighting up buildings as far as the eye could see. Soho being Soho, the street still bustled with people, not a single one looking up. 

"Best seats in the house," Crowley called from his spot a few feet away.

"Crowley, please, you'll fall."

"No I won't!"

"Oh, you are so evil sometimes," Aziraphale complained, as he crawled over carefully on his hands and knees.

"Hey, Angel, how about you stop worrying and lie down next to me?" Crowley asked, barely stifling a giggle at his ridiculous angel.

Aziraphale shot him an annoyed look, but slowly made his way over, and lay down gingerly next to Crowley. He settled himself into what he thought might be the safest position, and placed his hands either side of him.

Crowley slipped a hand over his, smoking his cigarette with the other one. Aziraphale marvelled at the beautiful, sculpted angles of his face and the way his wiry frame looked, spreadeagled over the tiles. How very unafraid he looked, how very cool he looked. 

Aziraphale was petrified. And exhilarated. He interlocked his hand with Crowley's and said, "Can't see many stars tonight. Too much light pollution here."

"We should go somewhere there are stars," muttered Crowley, "I'd like to see the stars with you."

"And I with you, dear boy," Aziraphale replied, with a nervous sigh. 

They lay there quietly for a moment, soaking in the sky, the view of London and the street below, the feeling of naughtiness, being somewhere they weren't meant to be.

Finally, Crowley broke the silence, after another drag on his cigarette. "You don't need to be scared of them, y'know"

"Who?"

"Your family. You don't need to be scared of them."

"I'm not scared of them." Aziraphale laughed nervously.

"Yes you are. You're terrified of them. I can see it. And, well, you shouldn't be."

"You don't understand..."

"Actually, I do. I mean, you talk about your life as if it's something terrible to be kept secret. But it's not."

"Yes, but I've rather failed at a lot of things. Not like you. You've succeeded. Your life is a series of accomplishments."

Crowley laughed bitterly. "No, it isn't. I was a criminal barrister, remember? Being at the Criminal Bar is a series of failures. It's just trying to make those failures less bad, but you're fighting against your clients half the time. Everyone says they're innocent, even when they're clearly not. And even when the police and CPS[9] have fucked up everything, they still end up saying or doing something to make it worse. But it wasn't even that, y'know, with some kid from the estate you grew up on saying they hadn't stabbed someone in a chicken shop even when there's CCTV footage and four witnesses. It isn't even the Legal Aid Agency[10] taking a fucking year to pay the hundred quid they owe you. It isn't even working 'til 2am on a case you are going to lose, and not even helping your client have a better life when they're out. It's the times when the system fucks up and you're left knowing that."

He finished his cigarette and said, "It was a kid's case that got me in the end. Historical kiddie abuse, Catholic priest, just hitting the kids, nothing more serious than that, but had clearly left destruction in his wake. It was a magistrate’s court[11] hearing, but it'd been moved three times before it ended up with me. And I go in there on the morning, thinking that I'm just a cog in the machine, just presenting it to the court before it goes up to the Crown Court, right? I think that because I don't get any evidence before time, but the Crown Prosecution Service couldn't organise a piss up in a brewery[12]. So I get to court, ready to do my part, and they've lost the evidence[13]. The fucking Crown Prosecution Service have lost the evidence for a kiddie case. So I'm there, screaming at the court’s clerk, demanding he finds this fucking evidence, but it's gone. Disappeared into the ether. It's gone. And I can't do anything about it." Crowley took a deep breath. "I couldn't deal with it. I told New Albion Street I needed time off, but they took that as me resigning from Chambers. I end up seeing Ligur for the first time in two years, and next thing I know I'm taking up a third six[14] at Brimstone." Crowley tried to laugh, but it ended up being another sigh. "Turned out my knowledge of landlord and tenant cases transferred over easily to commercial. So, yeah, not exactly a salubrious career. But I've survived. Sometimes I wish I hadn't."

"Don't say that!" Aziraphale snapped.

"I can say that! Because whatever happened, I didn't give up. You can't always win, but you can make the losing better. Hell, if I'd stayed at New Albion, I'd never have met you."

They lie there, looking up at the starless sky, taking everything in. 

Aziraphale squeezed Crowley's hand. "I'm very glad to have met you, even if you are a complete menace sometimes."

Crowley squeezed his hand back. "And, y'know, I'm okay with you having gone to a shit university."

"Crowley!"

"What? I can't help it if Cambridge is better!"

"Oh, the Fenland Polytechnic[15]? Please."

"Better than being an Onion[16]." They both giggled at each other. 

"I love you," Aziraphale said, blush going unnoticed in the dark.

"I love you too," Crowley replied, leaning over and kissing him on the cheek. 

Aziraphale turned his head to look at him and said, "The view up here is very beautiful tonight."

Crowley smiled. "Funny, I could say the same thing. How do you feel about getting down from here? It's brass monkeys[17] tonight."

"This was your idea," Aziraphale teased.

"I know...but that was ten minutes ago."

Aziraphale rolled his eyes. "I'll go down first. You'll need a soft landing if you slip."

"Dammit Angel, I am not going to concentrate on getting down safely with that thought in my head," Crowley half-joked.

"Serves you right," said Aziraphale, as he carefully crawled back to the skylight. 

Despite himself, Crowley did make it back safely, even if he almost fell on Aziraphale on the way down. 

Aziraphale steadied Crowley, and helped him off the bed, holding both his hands. "You nuisance," he chided.

"You love it," Crowley replied, smiling stupidly.

"I do, rather." He placed Crowley’s thin, cold hands between his large, warm ones. "Oh, goodness you're cold!"

"You going to warm me up?" Crowley asked, eyebrow rising theatrically.

"Maybe. It would be terribly ungentlemanly of me to let you stay cold."

"But first, a toast!" said Crowley, and pouring the last of the bottle out into their two glasses, brought them back to where Aziraphale was standing. He passed one to Aziraphale gently, and wrapping his now free arm around his soft waist, pulled him close. Then, staring Aziraphale in the eye, he held his glass steady and said, "To failure."

"To failure," Aziraphale replied. 

Crowley clinked their glasses together, and they drank. 

** FOOTNOTES **

* * *

[1] I TOTALLY FORGOT TO EXPLAIN THIS LAST CHAPTER! Brighton is sometimes known as the LGBTQ Capital of the UK.

[2] Pull: Slang term for looking for a hook-up, i.e. to ‘pull’ them home.

[3] Gobby: Slang for talking in a loud and offensive manner, with the implication of potentially being aggressive about it.

[4] The Universities and Colleges Admissions Service is a UK-based organisation whose main role is to operate the application process for British universities

[5] Oxford and Cambridge are known for asking weird questions at interviews, partly to entertain the people interviewing, partly to test people’s skills for thinking out of the box.

[6] Row: Slang for a noisy or heated argument. Pronounced to rhyme with ‘cow’, not ‘toe.’

[6] _Tab_: Oxford student slang for those who are studying/studied at Cambridge; a contraction of _Cantabrigian_, the Latin term for them. Oxbridge, where even the slang derives from Latin.

[7] More Oxford student slang for Cambridge.

[8] PPE: Philosophy, Politics and Economics. A terrifying amount of our political leaders have done this degree, especially at Oxford. Not to be confused with PPE in the sense of Personal Protective Equipment, though that is very important in the construction industry, or Potential Psychic Energy, the equivalent of magic points in the ludicrous post-apocalyptic RPG Rifts. (Please note that the last point was made by my editor, so I have no idea how ridiculous this RPG is.)

[9] CPS: Crown Prosecution Service is the public agency for conducting criminal prosecutions in England and Wales.

[10] Legal Aid Agency: The agency for allocating and paying money for publicly funded cases.

[11] The ‘lowest’ court, usually just for petty crimes. <https://www.chambersstudent.co.uk/media/1071/the-criminal-courts-of-england-and-wales.png?width=432px&height=678px>

[12] Due to public service funding cuts, the CPS is struggling to perform its public duties <https://www.theguardian.com/law/2013/jul/10/cps-lack-resources-funding-cutbacks>

[13] The CPS being massively overstretched means that terrifying amounts of evidence gets lost of misplaced. CW: child abuse and miscarriage of justice from second sentence in <https://ico.org.uk/about-the-ico/news-and-events/news-and-blogs/2018/05/cps-fined-325-000-after-losing-victim-interview-videos/>

[14] A third six pupil is not a pupil, but rather a qualified barrister who has not secured tenancy at chambers and is looking for a chance of tenancy elsewhere, so ends up taking the dogsbody work at another set, under the guises of further ‘training’.

[15] _Fenland_, the fenland district is where Cambridge University is located. Cambridge was built after Oxford, so therefore it’s a ‘new university’? For American readers, imagine someone who studied at Harvard calling Yale a community college, because it’s about 60 years younger.

[16] The only attempt I could find at Cambridge student slang for Oxford students, taken from the fact they call themselves _Oxonians_. The Tab edit bear wishes it to be known that he has literally never heard this before, but then he is quite old.

[17] British slang for very cold weather. Short for “cold enough to freeze the balls off (or on) a brass monkey"

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Whoo! I hope that was enjoyable. 
> 
> Let me know if any of the footnotes are broken, as I did something silly to them and then had to re-do them by hand, but knowing me I may have missed a marker or so! Also, I genuinely have no idea how useful any of the footnotes are, so if I'm over footnoting (something I noticed as I was fixing those tags...) please say!
> 
> Right, I'm hoping to have a chapter out mid-week. Third time lucky, but I have the rough cut ready to go! 
> 
> I'm sorry I haven't been replying to comments the last couple of weeks - I read them and cherish them! And they are very much appreciated!


	14. My game of love has just begun

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Thank you to @mywingsareonwheels for editing this for me! 
> 
> Ttitle taken from 'Play the Game' by Queen. Who doesn't love a theme!
> 
> ** Content Warning**
> 
> **Bad Langauge, Gender Dysphoria**

  
  


After toasting to the worst of their lives, Aziraphale and Crowley stayed in that bed for the rest of the night. 

It was like a wall between the two of them had fallen. They touched each other's bodies like they were the first lovers in the garden of Eden, with purity in their innocence and lust. Together, they were incorrigible. Crowley was utterly besotted at having full access to those thick thighs, that rounded backside and soft tummy, being aroused every time he thought he had spent himself fully. Aziraphale, in contrast, greedily took in his lover's slim body, clever yellow eyes and beautiful red hair, never truly satiated, even when he fell back to the bed dizzy and exhausted. 

They exchanged many _I love you_s over those hours. They exchanged many kisses, and hugs, and looks of adoration. There was nothing keeping them apart now. They knew they were in a liminal space, the moments between being hurled up in the sky and being forced to land, but right then, in that moment, they were together. They _needed_ to be together. They needed to hold each other and luxuriate in their new freedoms. 

Aziraphale, for today, had no family to hold him back from what he desired. Crowley, for today, had no chambers to demand anything from him. They were unmoored, floating gently together until the winds of fate would come for them again, but for now they would enjoy the drift. 

They fell asleep intertwined with each other, Aziraphale whispering  _ I love you _ into Crowley's ear as he faded into slumber.

They didn't wake up that morning until they heard angry knocking on the shop door. Aziraphale, typically, woke up first, and on realising that the noise was coming from downstairs, gently shook Crowley awake. 

"Nnnn," he replied, not wanting to open his eyes.

"Crowley, there's someone at the door."

"Ngk." Crowley sat up. "I'll make them go away!" He sat up, stark naked, and started to walk to the door.

"Crowley!"

Crowley stopped.

"You're naked!"

"Oh." He seemed surprised at this. He quickly threw on his boxers, and grabbed a red tartan dressing gown hanging on the back of the door.

"Oh no, you can't go down like that..."

"Angel, I have seen the world's foremost expert on property law in my pyjamas[1] ," Crowley scowled, "I'm not getting dressed for a delivery man or someone who thinks that this is a bookshop."

"Well, at least put some slippers on!" Aziraphale sighed. "You'll catch your death otherwise."

Crowley noticed the beige tartan slippers by the door, and slid them on his feet. He padded back to the bed, kissed Aziraphale, and said, "I'll be straight back."

"Dearest--keys." Aziraphale passed them to Crowley.

Crowley walked down the staircase carefully, listening to the banging on the door. 

He was on the shop floor when he heard a very familiar, very south London, and very, very angry voice shouting, "CROWLEY! WHERE ARE YOU YOU ABSOLUTE ARSEHOLE?"

"Oh, for the love of..." he muttered, opening the door with a jangle of keys. 

He was met by Beelzebub, scowling at him, and Ligur and Adam standing behind her, looking sheepish.

"Crowley, you ginger twat, don't you  _ ever _ answer your phone?" she hissed.

"No. Nope. No." Crowley scowled back. "You all need to go away right now."

"We are not going away, we need a little chat with you."

Crowley pinched the bridge of his nose dramatically, and sighed. "No you don't."

"Are you only wearing a dressing gown?" Beelzebub asked, unusually scandalised. 

"This is just like when you met Tom in your pyjamas," sighed Ligur.

"I'm dressed for the occasion," he snapped back, "Now fuck off."

He started to close the door, but Beelzebub was too quick for him and stuck her foot in. "Open up you fucker!"

"No, you fuck off!" Crowley pushed back, trying to kick her foot from the door.

"You're worse than my teenagers!" Beelzebub grimaced, foot barely affected by his slippered kicks.

"No I'm not! Go away!" he hissed sulkily. 

He started pushing her foot with his foot, and might have succeeded in getting rid of them if he hasn't heard a voice behind him say,"Crowley, is everything alright?"

Crowley stopped pushing at the door, and Beelzebub took the opportunity and barged past him. "Excuse me, but we need to have a chat with this idiot here."

Aziraphale blinked owlishly. "Crowley, what on earth is going--"

"--Let me introduce myself, I am Beelzebub QC. This is Ligur, my junior, and my pupil Adam. We need to have a chat with Crowley about his recent… conduct."

"Oh, I think he's mentioned you..." Aziraphale muttered, as he fixed Beelzebub with a stare. 

"Are you Aziraphale Celeste?" she asked, clearly knowing the answer.

"Can all of you just leave!" Crowley bristled, and looked like he was ready to attack them, if Aziraphale hadn't placed a hand on his arm and stepped forward.

"Yes, I am," Aziraphale said, his voice calm and level.

"We will need to talk as well," Beelzebub replied.

"Anything you want to say to me, you can say in front of Crowley," stated Aziraphale, gripping Crowley's arm firmly. Everything about him radiated control. 

Beelzebub seemed a bit unsure of herself, having been put on the back foot. Aziraphale took the opportunity, and threw himself into a speech he had half-prepared in his head."I understand that I have caused quite some trouble. None of it was intended, but I would still like to apologise for my part in it. Crowley has, throughout everything, been impeccable, always acting in my best interest as a client, and as a..." there was a moment as he took a deep breath, and looked away as he said, "...boyfriend. Any poor behaviour from him should be--"

"No, no, no, nothing like that," Beelzebub waved his speech away. "He will need to make amends for the stunts he's pulled--"

"You owe me a new suit and a new phone," Ligur interrupted.

"--but, for better or for worse, he has another chance at Chambers," Beelzebub finished.

"Also,” Ligur added, “Can I say, I've known Crowley for over 25 years and trust me, he acts like a complete bell-end[2] without any help." 

"Thanks, Ligur," said Crowley with an eye-roll.

"Yes, I suspect that's true." Aziraphale smiled a smile that didn't quite reach his eyes, but relaxed a little at the attempt at humour. Crowley glowered at Aziraphale, who studiously ignored him. "I think we will all feel better for a cup of tea."

"Really, Aziraphale?" Crowley asked, exasperated.

"Yes. Really," said Aziraphale, with a meaningful glance."Dearest, please make everyone comfortable. I'll make a pot and bring it down."

"Okay. Sure. Comfortable," he sulked.

"Thank you, dearheart." Aziraphale smiled at him, his eyes crinkling up at the edges. He let go of Crowley's arm and retreated up the stairs.

As soon as Aziraphale was out of hearing distance, Crowley waved an arm and glowered, "The sofa is over there. Go sit yourselves down."

Once they started to shuffle towards the couch, Crowley grabbed the chair behind the desk and pulled it over, before promptly sitting on the floor instead. Beelzebub, Adam and Ligur squeezed on to the couch, looking a little uncomfortable. 

"Right, I’m ready for my bollocking now," said Crowley brusquely, “When are you kicking me out of Chambers?”

"Crowley, we’re not kicking you out," Beelzebub replied, annoyed. "You're staying at Chambers, for now, but we have to talk to you about this little escapade."

"Look, none of this is my fault, except the thing with Ligur, but you know I had my reasons."

"No, Crowley, I don't actually know," Ligur replied, leaning forward. "What the hell were you thinking? If I'd actually hurt myself, this would be a very different situation. You should know better than any of us about the eggshell skull rule[3] ."

Crowley was a little embarrassed. He'd defended his fair share of people in bar fights that had gone wrong. A lot of them were still in prison for manslaughter. 

"In the meantime, you owe me a new suit and a new phone. And I mean new. Not any replacements of equal value, new[4] ".

Crowley groaned. "Well, that's the best part of five grand gone."

"You deserve to be kicked out of Chambers, _ then _ reported to the police and  _ then _ the Bar Standards Board, in that order!" Beelzebub interjected.

"So why not?" he asked.

"Because...we all sort of... fucked up here," sighed Beelzebub. Ligur looked at her meaningfully until she added, "Except Ligur".

"I should have found out more about the brief, so you could refuse it." Beelzebub paused, and then, looking at Crowley, whispered, "And, well, I had a look into this. There're loads of red flags in the way Mr Celeste's firing was dealt with; it didn't really make sense. Nothing that couldn't get swept under the rug, but I don't like it. And that bloody contract…"

"...I know, right?" Crowley whispered back. "It's not usual, they control his accounts, and…"

Crowley trailed off as they heard Aziraphale coming down the stairs, crockery clinking as he carefully carried the tray.

"I'm afraid I don't have a matching set, but there are mugs for everyone... Crowley, are you all right?"

Crowley jumped up and said,"Absolutely fine! Good! Great! Never better! Do you need any help, Angel?"

"No, no, I'll be fine." Aziraphale carefully placed the tray with a teapot, five mugs, and a plate of biscuits on the coffee table between them. "I hope everyone can eat custard creams[5] ."

"Where did these come from?" Crowley asked, looking for any distraction.

"Oh, from the emergency stash." Aziraphale said this as if it were obvious. 

"You have an emergency stash of biscuits?" 

"Don't most people?"

"No,” Crowley chuckled, grinning. “Not at all." Crowley felt a wave of adoration crash through him. Somehow the thought of an emergency biscuit stash was so wonderful, it was all he could do not to push his beautiful angel into a bookshelf and kiss him.

Beelzebub cleared her throat. "Mr Celeste, this brings us to our next point..."

"It does?" Aziraphale poured tea into each of the mugs.

"Sandalphon & Uriel delivered the papers requesting that you agree to mediation this morning."

"Pass them here," Crowley snarled. "You didn't need to come all the way here to deliver them."

"I have discussed the matter with Uriel, and we decided that after certain… disclosures made yesterday, I would no longer be working with them. Professional embarrassment and all."

"So wait, who..."

"I have passed the case to Hastur."

Crowley tried to look neutral, for Aziraphale's sake, but was betrayed by a scowl. "Bastard," he muttered.

"But I do have a proposal for Mr Celeste..." Beelzebub bit into the yellow biscuit with a loud snap. 

"Oh?" Aziraphale put the pot down.

"That I represent you."

"What!" Crowley re-adjusted his bathrobe.

"Oh, no," Aziraphale purred, sitting down on the chair, "I'm perfectly happy with--"

"--Crowley, at this point, may be a witness, Mr Celeste," Beelzebub said, face lined with seriousness, "And that could jeopardise any agreement we could put forward. I understand that you are… comfortable with him, but it would be in your best interest to use different counsel."

"No." Crowley, leaning on the back of Aziraphale's chair, tried to look intimidating. "I can do this! I can do this."

Ligur stood up and grabbed Crowley by the arm. "Me. You. Outside. Mr Celeste, if you will excuse us..."

Crowley and Ligur stepped out the front door of the shop. Crowley shivered in the October chill. 

"I don't have any cigarettes, but you can have a go on my big stick," Ligur sniggered.

"Oh fuck off, Ligur" Crowley replied, but took his chunky, futurist vape anyway. It lit up with a red light, and he took a long, deep, inhale.

"Crowley, you are too close to this. You've ever seen a barrister defending a spouse in court? It's always a shitshow. Both of them end up frustrated and angry. Beelzebub is doing you a favour."

"Eugh, it tastes like cherries," Crowley coughed, "And this is my case--"

"--And that's why you should know how much of a favour she's doing you," Ligur interrupted, his voice low and ponderous."She doesn't have to do this. She wants to. You know she did family law for a few years before she shifted to commercial, right? This is exactly her flavour of bullshit."

Crowley sighed, cherry-flavoured smoke billowing out around him. "I should be the one who does this." He passed the vape back to Ligur, who drew a deep breath himself.

"You don't save him by doing all the fighting yourself. You do that by being smart. And the smart thing is to let Beelzebub take over."

"I hate that you're right," said Crowley, with a shiver. 

"Yeah, and don't you forget it.” Then to lighten the mood he added, “Or the fact you owe me a new phone."

"Mate, I said I was sorry about the bucket thing!"

"You didn't." Ligur raised an eyebrow.

"Oh." Crowley looked at his feet a moment. "Sorry. I... panicked. I really wasn't thinking straight."

"Well, definitely not these days," Ligur smiled at his own bad joke. "Okay, I get it. I've known you long enough to know what you're like in a blind panic." 

"I wasn't... Alright. Maybe. And you wanted a new iPhone."

"Sure, Crowley, I love acquiring new tech via tort.[6]"

"Exactly," Crowley grinned, "Only way to do it.

They went back inside, to find Aziraphale and Beelzebub chatting animatedly.

"Well, my dear, that all sounds rather excellent, but I'm not sure if Crowley explained, but I am short on funds for the foreseeable."

"It's fine. As long as you don't mind being a training case for the pupils, it'll be pro bono[7] . I'll oversee everything, but Adam here will be doing the heavy lifting." 

Adam smiled and nodded, mouth full of biscuit.

"I'll still be able to provide guidance when you're busy, right?" asked Crowley, still unsure about the whole endeavour.

"Some." Beelzebub smiled, "But you're going to give Adam a chance to do it. If you hover, I will swat you."

Crowley stood behind Aziraphale, and squeezed his shoulders. "If Aziraphale agrees, I agree."

"Dearest..." Aziraphale looked up at him. "A chat?" Crowley nodded, and motioned towards a bookshelf. "Please help yourselves to tea," Aziraphale smiled, and they shuffled behind the bookcase.

Once they were obscured from sight, Aziraphale deflated a little. "What do I do?" he whispered.

Crowley wanted to wrap himself around his angel, make everyone leave, and take on the entire world himself. Crowley wanted to tell him to dismiss them and they could do it together, somehow. If he was really honest, he might have admitted that he wanted to just run away to somewhere none of this would matter. But despite himself, Crowley knew that what he wanted wasn't what was best. At least not right now. He gently put his arms around Aziraphale, and said, "Take Beelzebub's offer. She'll look after you… As long as you're comfortable with it."

Aziraphale's face rippled through a number of emotions before settling on settling on nervous decision. "I'll take them up on it."

"Good." Crowley smiled, trying to be reassuring, before adding, "But don't let them push you into anything. If it doesn't work out, I am still in your corner. Always." 

Aziraphale looked into his eyes for a moment, before placing a soft kiss on his cheek. "I won't let them talk me into anything I don't want." Aziraphale smiled, no, he  _ beamed _ at him.

Crowley felt himself melt under Aziraphale’s loving gaze. "Angel, you're so handsome when you smile like that."

Aziraphale blushed, quite clearly having a malfunction of his own. He kissed Crowley again, this time far more passionately, leaving them both breathless. "I love you," he whispered, as if it were a secret. 

"I love you too," Crowley whispered back, grinning giddily. 

"Are you ready?" Aziraphale asked, eyes sparking with sureness.

"Yeah," Crowley lied. "Let's give them your decision."

They went back to the sofa area, holding hands. 

Aziraphale sat on the chair, and Crowley resumed his position, looming over him. Aziraphale looked into Beelzebub's eyes, and said, very carefully, "I would be honoured to have you take my case."

Beelzebub smiled, and said, "Great. I'll contact Sandalphon & Uriel for their bundle, and we can draft something up requesting the right sort of mediator. Hastur will need a copy of it anyway. Crowley, make sure you bring what you have with you tomorrow, 9am sharp, we'll sort out passing over the case then. Mr Celeste, welcome aboard! We'll get a client care letter sent out to you in the next couple of days -- Adam, that's your job. We'll have a formal meeting once I’ve had a proper look over the papers..."

Ligur grinned, giving Crowley a look of triumph. "Don't forget my new suit. Or my new phone."

"You won't let me forget," Crowley grimaced, to hide his amusement.

Ligur held out his hand. "Great to meet you, finally, Mr Celeste. Don't be a stranger."

Aziraphale shook the hand firmly, with a smile. "Great to meet you too, Ligur. I hope we see each other again soon.”

Crowley scowled, and guiding Ligur to the door he said, "No! I'm not letting you two spend any time together!"

Aziraphale and Ligur gave each other conspiratorial looks as Crowley half-pushed Ligur out. He then shook hands with Beelzebub and Adam like he was a minor royal exchanging pleasantries. Once everyone had left, Crowley collapsed into the chair dramatically and let out a cry of frustration. 

"Dear, they were very nice..."

"No, no they weren't! They were awful!"

"You get to stay in Chambers despite causing an awful fuss, your peers like and respect you, and they've even agreed to take on my case pro bono--"

"--and they were utter dickheads about it," Crowley sighed.

"Dearest, this is a rare case where I doubt your judgement." Aziraphale tried hard not to laugh at Crowley's expression.

"You know what would make me feel better?" Crowley asked, a wanton grin spreading across his face.

Aziraphale noticed that change in tone. "What would that be, dearest?" he cooed in reply.

"Thighs," Crowley grinned. "Your thighs."

* * *

"You been able to get through to Ms Celeste at all?" asked Sandalphon.

Uriel rolled her eyes. "Nope. She's gone silent since the airport. Complete mess. I can't believe we're not dropping them."

"We've still got an instruction. And Celeste & Co. are still worth a lot of money to us." Sandalphon sighed, "Just, I got a request from the new barrister for clarification on a few points."

Uriel pinched the bridge of her nose. "Ugh, he's awful. He insists on everything being on paper. And this is becoming such a headache."

Sandalphon nodded in agreement. "I've sent an email to the head honcho to chase her up."

* * *

Michael had turned her phone off. And wasn't picking up emails. She couldn't face going back to work. She couldn't face pretending to be okay any more. 

She hadn't gone back to America. She couldn't face the failure. So she'd headed to one of the properties Celeste & Co owned in Clerkenwell. Officially they were for renting out to staff on secondments, and as investments, but unofficially they gave her access to a back channel, a place she could go when the weight of the family name got too much. 

The flat itself was expensively re-fitted and comfortably spartan, but Michael couldn't bring herself to sit on the chairs, or turn the lights on. It all seemed too much. She sat in the corner of the room, only illuminated by the street lamps outside. 

She should never have let Aziraphale get under her skin. But, in some ways, he was always under her skin. She hated him. She hated him so much. She had never got what she wanted; and he had. The hate was eating her alive. 

She hated the way he flaunted himself about, so weird, so effeminate, so bloody queer. And nobody stopped him. Nobody made him act right. Nobody. He got to do just as he liked, and she was left to pick up the pieces, as usual. She had to be the good one, the normal one, deal with him because she was supposedly a girl, and supposedly meant to be good at this stuff. But she wasn't. She just wasn't. 

How dare he! How dare he just kiss another man in front of her like it was nothing! It burned her up inside, knowing that she was expected to be good when he would just... be... that. Hadn't he already got the most? She'd been sent back to that school because she was old enough, whilst he got to have Mother for longer, those precious extra six months, which he couldn't even remember. 

Michael had always been forgotten. Gabriel, he was just like father, strong, serious, so very straight in everything. Things came easy to him. Everything. He inherited Celeste & Co., and under him it went from strength to strength. What did it matter that Michael was trying? What did it matter that she was prepared to do anything, anything, to make this company a success? She cared more than Gabriel did. But somehow it wasn't enough.

Michael refocused her anger. It was Aziraphale's fault. It was. If only he cared more, if only he was more willing to try and be normal. If only he'd been sent away as well. She had to be the good one. She had to be okay with things she was not okay with. She had to live a lie every day, that she was okay, that she was normal, that she was she, and he didn't. 

She wanted to destroy him. She wanted to hurt him. She wanted to hurt him as much as he had hurt her. She hated him so, so, much. He was the problem in this family. And yet here she was, having to solve the unsolvable, unthinkable problem of Aziraphale. 

Making him leave one of their London flats was meant to do that. Make him crash and burn, make him realise how much they looked after him, how much they shielded him from the world, and make him fall back in line. But instead he'd been saved by that bitch Madam Tracy, and found a way to be both frustrating and utterly shameless; that lawyer boyfriend of his.

Michael had always been the good one. So why didn't she get to have someone who cared about her? Accepted her for her? Who would risk their career for her, and run after her if she went missing?

Gabriel hadn't even noticed that she was gone. 

Aziraphale had that skinny demon come for him. Figure out where he was, hold him close, be kissed by him. How dare he. How dare he...

Michael didn't want to be alone any more. She didn't want to bear the pressure of normalcy any more.

She couldn't hide any longer.

Footnotes

[1]Neither Cambridge nor Oxford have any requirement to wear day clothes when meeting with the faculty, although Oxford does require full sub fusc for exams. So in one’s time at Oxford, one can see a world expert in your pyjamas, but be stopped from taking your exam if you’re wearing a blue coat over your robes. PRIORITIES PEOPLE. 

[2]Apparently, Americans don’t have this swear! It describes the tip of a penis. Like dickhead, but whimsical. 

[3]It’s one of the names used to describe the legal doctrine that if you cause harm to another person, on purpose or by accident, the fact that they are unusually fragile can’t be used as a defence against culpability. The defendant must "take their victims as they find them".

[4]I’m incredibly vague on this point, but one of the principles in civil law in the UK is that in all but the most extreme cases, you should compensate someone so they are in a similar position to where they were before the ‘wrong’ happened. (There are a lot of arguments of whether this is the correct approach, but I’m a fanfiction writer, not an expert in jurisprudence. I’m not entirely sure I can _spell_ jurisprudence without Googling it.) 

[5]Imagine an Oreo, but that the cookie bit tastes less like cardboard, and the middle tastes more like buttercream. 

[6]Tort: Legal term referring to a ‘wrong’ done to another person, but an action that is dealt with in a civil court rather than a criminal court. Because making it sound like a delicious cake makes more sense than ‘Civil done bad Law’ 

[7]Apologies for not adding a footnote in the text when this came up earlier – it’s a posh name for ‘for free’ or ‘for the public good’.


	15. Step into Christmas

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Hey, I'm only a little bit massively behind, right? Apologies for the wait, I basically had to scrap two chapters and start again, so I'm nowhere near as prepared as I wanted to be for this. 
> 
> So, just as Christmas ends, I start the Christmas chapters...I have another chapter to go tomorrow which is incredibly long, then hopefully just a bit of a pause before continuing!
> 
> Also , I'm going to go back to previous chapters and just fix up the spacing and chapter breaks a bit, just to make things a bit nicer.

2Oh, Hell's bells, Crowley, this isn't a bundle," Beelzebub snapped. "A letter, two pages of drunk spiders playing twister that you call writing, and an audio interview isn't anything. I expected better of you."

"I thought I was just writing a counter-offer, I didn't realise how big this would get!" Crowley complained back.

"This is why, Adam, we don't try to represent spouses in court," Beelzebub sighed, "Because you spend too much time mooning to ask any useful questions."

"I asked questions!" Crowley protested.

"Asking for his phone number and star sign are not relevant questions, Crowley!"

"He's a Taurus, if you must know," Crowley mumbled

"Oh for the love of all that is evil...you fucking skirted the line of litigation, here!" She pointed at the counter offer. "Never do this again, unless you actually want to take instructions from the public!"

"Noted."

"Sandalphon & Uriel are dragging their feet about getting the last of the papers to us, but once we've gone through all that, we can start negotiating a mediator and putting together the case..."

"Mediator? Why are we needed if it's just mediation?" asked Adam.

"Mediation is cheap, and it's private," answered Beelzebub, "And court ain't. But just because they're not planning to drag this through court, doesn't mean your client doesn't need to bring a good case. Luckily for Mr Celeste, I can do public access. And can conduct litigation. So as long as I sign everything off, we can do this all in-house."

"So if this isn't going to court, why us?" asked Adam.

"Because this is messy," said Beelzebub. "He’s going to need a few experts about. Luckily, he has me.”

“And me!” added Crowley. “Let me know if I can help!”

“To be honest, the best thing you can do right now is to make sure he’s got someone to listen to him when things get hard, and encourage him to tell us everything he can that might be relevant.”

Crowley nodded sadly. “Too many cooks, and all that.” He left, and returned to his room to work. He had barely settled down when Anathema knocked and let herself in. Crowley looked up.

"Hey, erm, I know you usually avoid the Christmas party, but I just wanted to check...Andras and Paimon can't make it now, so...maybe...I mean the seats are booked anyway..."

Crowley found himself smiling at her. "Who's going?"

"Errm, so, the pupils are going, and Ligur, Dagon, Beelzebub and Hastur are going too, the three Erics, Valafar, Stolas, Luci is going to Skype in for a speech, and moi, of course!"

"...and there are two seats you need to fill?"

"...yeah."

"So, if I wanted to bring a guest..."

"I thought you might say that," Anathema smiled, as if she hadn't practically suggested it, "And, well, I've asked everyone else so if you don't take it, it'll go to waste..."

"Anathema, you could have just asked me. I don't need you to make it seem like my idea."

"Really?" She raised an eyebrow.

"Really! As long as I can take Aziraphale, I'll come."

"Good!" she beamed, "I'll put you both down. It's a nice venue, so wear something dressy!" 

“You know me, Anathema. Always smart.” 

Anathema looked down at his scuffed snakeskin boots, tatty jeans with a hole in one knee, and the overwashed Velvet Underground t-shirt, fraying at the neck, with a growing hole under the left armpit. 

“Yes, very classy. Is that a new stain?” She rolled her eyes at him. “I have no idea what Angel sees in you.” 

“I think it’s my winning personality,” Crowley grinned back. 

“Definitely not,” Anathema replied with a chuckle. “I’m actually looking forward to it now!”

"Well, at least that's something. I'll stay until the booze runs out."

"Oh, c'mon, it'll be fun!"

"No it won't," Crowley smiled, "But it'll annoy Hastur, and that's almost the same thing."

"Crowley, please don't start a fight..."

"I won't start a fight! It's just Hastur will have a conniption anyway. And it's not a Christmas party if there isn't a bit of drama!" 

"Crowley..."

"I'm not going to start a fight with Angel there, don't worry," Crowley waved off the thought. 

"Good. You're both on the list!" 

Anathema was about to leave, when Crowley said, "Is it too late to say I want to take time off around Christmas?" 

Anathema stopped in her tracks. "What?"

"I...I was thinking that it would be nice to spend some time with Aziraphale this Christmas. The whole thing with his family is pretty hard on him. He might like a distraction."

"Oh really?" Anathema said amused.

"Look, I know that normally I'm fine to cover last minute stuff..."

"It is a bit late, but Dagon might be willing to take extra things on." Anathema thought out loud, "And if anything is really small, we can pass it to the pupils."

"So yes?"

"Hmm. Maybe." She thought for a moment, and then a flicker of a smile crossed her face, "I will see what I can do.."

"Why does everything feel like doing a deal with the devil with you?" he sighed.

* * *

Crowley managed to get back to the shop earlier than expected, and opened the door to find the gramophone belting out loud ‘60s girl pop.

Aziraphale was gently dancing along to the song and singing to himself. He hadn't heard Crowley come in. 

Crowley couldn't resist it. He watched Aziraphale, angel, his Angel, wiggle as he sang, "Here comes my guy, Walking down the street, Look how he waaaaalks, with a dancing beat." 

He'd never seen Aziraphale dance before. He got the impression his lot didn't really do dancing. But it was rather entrancing, watching him move unselfconsciously, swinging his hips and tapping his feet along to the beat. 

Crowley crept up behind him, grinning, as Aziraphale sang "Gonna walk right up to him, Give him a great big--"

Crowley grabbed him by the shoulder, and to Aziraphale's shock pulled him into a tight, passionate embrace for a deep kiss.

"Good Lord, Crowley!" Aziraphale gasped.

"Hello you," Crowley grinned, before going in for another kiss.

_ Well, what colour are his eyes? _ asked the song.

"I don't know, he's always wearing shades," Aziraphale sang, taking off Crowley’s shades and giving him another gentle kiss.

"Is he tall?" Crowley purred along to the track.

"Well, I gotta look up," Aziraphale purred back, looking up into his face

"Yeah, well I hear he's bad," Crowley growled playfully.

"Hmm, he's good bad, but not evil," Aziraphale teased back, before Crowley went in for another kiss.

Then before Aziraphale knew what was happening, Crowley's arms circled around his middle and he was doing something between a waltz and a lustful wiggle. "You're very lovely when you dance."

Aziraphale flushed, so easily flustered by an admiring word. "I'm not exactly doing the gavotte, am I?" he laughed quietly.

"I dunno. Would the gavotte mean that I get to hold that body close to me?" He pulled Aziraphale closer, luxuriating in how that soft body felt held up against his, all pillowy and warm, fleshy curving hips creating perfect perches for his hands to rest on. 

"Probably not," Aziraphale conceded.

"Then whatever dance this is, it's better than a gavotte." Crowley kissed him again, squeezing him close as the song rang out _ oh boy what a prize _!

The attempt at a waltz devolved into a long, comforting hug. Aziraphale stroked Crowley's hair, as he held him tight, swaying a little in time to the music. Crowley let out a little groan of tiredness, and eyes closed, rested his head on his shoulder.

"Long day?" Aziraphale joked.

"I hate winter," Crowley sighed, "Too cold, and too many lights."

"Poor love. I've made some soup. Should help warm you up."

"You're an angel, you know that, right?" 

Aziraphale laughed. "Well, if enough people call you it… I have a little news of my own."

"Oh?"

"I...I told Madame Tracy about us, what with everything being out in the open now. She approves. Not just that, but she's ecstatic that I've found someone. We had a long chat about you."

"Oh dear."

"She's looking forward to meeting you. So, I was thinking, seeing that you do stay here most of the time...would you like to do Christmas with me? Here at the shop?"

Crowley blinked, surprised. "Yes, of course!" he replied. "I sort of assumed that was the plan."

"Oh, that's wonderful, dear boy!" Aziraphale grinned. "I didn't want to assume--"

"--that I didn't want to spend Christmas with you?"

"Well, I got the impression that you usually work over Christmas."

"Not this year," he said, lifting his head to look Aziraphale in the eye. "This year, I want to be with you. So you'll have two weeks with me under your feet."

"Oh, what horror!" Aziraphale replied with a roll of his eyes, "I get you to myself for two weeks!"

"And Madame Tracy!"

"When she turns up. She's usually quite loose with her travel plans."

"Even better." Crowley tossed his hair. "I can disappear for a bit while you catch up."

"You'll do no such thing!" Aziraphale gave him a peck on the cheek, managing to be indignant about it. "It'll be fun. Oh, maybe I could host this year! Madame Tracy has always enjoyed a party!"

"Angel..." Crowley's eyes widened with panic.

"Yes, that's it! We can have an orphans' Christmas. That way we can have company on the day."

"So, who would be at this Christmas?" Crowley asked, archly.

"Well, Madame Tracy, her new man, if he's got nowhere else to go, you and me... Maybe Greta and Rose? I know that their families are difficult--"

"Okay, it seems that we will be having a party at Christmas," Crowley said resignedly.

"I know the kitchen is a bit small, but I'll see if anyone can lend us an extra hob."

"Or an oven big enough for a turkey," Crowley deadpanned.

Aziraphale, inflated with enthusiasm smiled and said, "I'll find something. It has been a while since I entertained, since everything that’s happened I’ve just not had reason..." He trailed off.

Crowley felt the need to fill the silence. "On that note, we've been invited to a Christmas party next week."

"Oh, that's lovely. Who's hosting?" 

"Erm, Chambers. It's a work do." 

"Oh, are partners usually allowed to come?" he asked, sounding nervous.

"No," replied Crowley, sheepishly, "But Anathema said she needed to fill two seats, otherwise they'd go to waste, and, well..."

"Well, that still sounds lovely. I'll get to spend time with Anathema, and meet Mr Pulsifer."

"And I can show you off a bit," Crowley replied, with a squeeze of Aziraphale's waist, and a kiss on the cheek. 

Aziraphale flushed a little, and put his head on Crowley's chest. "I'll do my best not to embarrass you."

Crowley felt something inside him burn with fury. "To be honest, you should be more worried the other way around."

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> See you tomorrow!


	16. Ballroom Blitz

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Happy New Year.
> 
> Please enjoy this absolute nonsense of a party.
> 
> The title comes from a song by [glam rock band The Sweet](https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=ewFBuYHldeY) . I highly recommend a listen if you fancy a boogie.

Crowley was running late. Although this time it was only by a few minutes. He’d been a little optimistic, perhaps, about how long it would take him to get ready.

He turned the corner, and saw Aziraphale waiting there, checking his pocket-watch. His hair and face were illuminated under the orange glow of a street light, making him look look almost other-worldly.

Crowley had been expecting another bow tie, but he was surprised to see a blue tartan cravat under the wingtip collar, held in place with a small gold pin. He wore a cream morning coat, the tails spreading our like wings, with a light blue velvet waistcoat peeking out from underneath. His light grey trousers led down to brown button-up shoes, which had been polished within an inch of their life.

“Oh, you look amazing, Angel…” he said, walking up to him, and gently holding him by the elbow.

Aziraphale looked up, a little shocked, “Good Lord!” he exclaimed, eyes flickering with lust.

Crowley was wearing a velvet tuxedo jacket cut in such a way as to emphasise the fact he was made of angles, with trousers that were almost a second skin. Oh, and his snakeskin boots. Some things don’t need to change.

Crowley felt his face shift into a smile, before leaning over to place a sweet, gentle kiss on Aziraphale’s delicate pink lips. In the heat of the moment he wondered about just grabbing Aziraphale and taking him back to the shop to unravel their clothes and ravish him over the desk. But as their lips parted, the idea fizzled out. He wanted to show off his gorgeous, exquisitely dressed lover.

“Hello Angel,” he muttered, squeezing Aziraphale’s elbow.

“Good evening, dear heart. Oh, you are beautiful enough for the devil himself!” Aziraphale gasped.

“I try.” 

Aziraphale’s brow furrowed. “Except for that bow tie! Oh, let me do it…” He pulled it undone.

“Careful Angel, if people see you doing this they’ll think you’re undressing me…” He grinned cheekily.

“They will think nothing of the sort! Now, chin up and hold still!” Aziraphale retied it with practised ease, before fussily pinching and smoothing out the edges of the bow. He leant back to admire his handiwork. “There you are; very handsome!” He patted Crowley on the shoulder, and then, looking up into Crowley’s face, kissed him delicately.

That thought of running off rushed back into Crowley’s mind. But instead he held out his arm, and said, “Ready to go in?”

Aziraphale linked his arm around Crowley’s. “After you.”

“Dearest,” Aziraphale whispered, “Everyone’s looking at us.”

They walked through the heavy, mahogany door to the little reception room. Groups of barristers stood around, faces familiar and horrific, watching them like prey. Dagon whispered to Hastur, trying to hide behind her glass of prosecco. Hastur stared at them with the expression a toad would have when tracking a particularly vicious snake.

Anathema spotted them, and ran over, “Angel!”

“Anathema!” he replied,, and they hugged. And hugged. When they finally broke apart, they were smiling at each other with utter relief.

“You look beautiful, my dear.” Aziraphale said, with a squeeze of her shoulder.

Anathema pushed her glasses up her nose, to hide the fact she enjoyed the flattery. “I scrub up well.”

Crowley had to admit that she was right. She still managed to look weird and witchy in her knee-length, high-neck black lace gown, but between her hair being flat-ironed and curled within an inch of its life, and having made more than a cursory nod to make-up, she did indeed scrub up well. That’s more than could be said for Newton, who stood next to her with his permanent expression of bemusement, in a polyester tuxedo which was clearly two sizes too big for him.

“I’m so glad to see you,” he said, in a low whisper.

“Same here,” she replied, with something like sadness in her eyes, “I don’t think I introduced you! This is Newton Pulsifer…”

Newton held his hand out to shake, which Aziraphale took with the utmost care. “Ah, yes, Mr Pulsifer, I owe you a debt.”

“Steady on there…” Crowley interjected, “He was very good, but you don’t owe him…”

“You still owe me 34 pints,” Anathema added, looking at Crowley.

“That’s different,” Crowley said without missing a beat, “So, thank you Pulsifer for your service, now have a bloody drink.” Crowley forced a glass of prosecco into Newton’s hands.

“Well, Merry Christmas,” he said, raising the glass and taking a sip.

“Oi, Anathema!” shouted Hastur from across the room, “A word please.”

Crowley rolled his eyes, and grabbed Aziraphale by the arm. “Go see to the old toad. We’ll be fine here.”

Anathema walked away, tottering slightly in her heels she didn’t normally wear.

Seeing a gap in the group, Beelzebub sidled up, looking decided uncomfortable in the black jumpsuit she’d chosen for the evening, clearly unused to wearing anything so distinctly glamorous. “Ah, wasn’t expecting to see you here, Mr Celeste,” she said, in a distinctly staged way. “How’re you keeping?”

“Very well” he replied, with a pleasant, uncomfortable smile. “That’s a very beautiful necklace you’re wearing.”

Beelzebub nodded and replied, “Thank you, my ex-husband bought it for me.”

“Oh dear, I’m sorry to bring it up…”

“Don’t be. It’s one of the best things he gave me, save my kids.”

“It is exquisite!” Aziraphale beamed. “Perhaps Edwardian?”

“Oh, I don’t know about that” Beelzebub laughed, “I can’t see him getting me anything so nice. He bought it for me before we were married.”

“It’s rather delicate,” he smiled. “Tell me, how many children do you have?”

Crowley started looking for an exit, and found one in Adam Young, who trotted over rather desperately. “Beelzebub,” he said quietly, “Can you go talk to Hastur?”

“I’ll do it!” Crowley piped up.

“Err, Crowley, I’m not sure…”

“Nonsense! Beelzebub, you tell Aziraphale all about your kids. I’ll go sort Hastur out.”

“If you’re sure…” Beelzebub said, tentatively.

Crowley strode across the room, where Hastur and Anathema were heatedly discussing something.

“Hastur, he’s not going to be anywhere near you!” Anathema hissed, trying to keep her voice down, “And I’ll make sure of that as well–”

“–No! That’s simply not good enough! This is against the rules! That maggot shouldn’t get special treatment–”

“–he isn’t, we had a couple of drop outs and the seats would have gone to waste–”

“Then it should have gone to waste! You know the rule, barristers and staff only, no spouses or clients, let alone both! I could be professionally embarrassed by this…”

Crowley saw his moment. “Well, you’re wearing that Burton monstrosity, so you can’t be easy to embarrass.”

“And you can fuck right off, you ginger bum boy!” Hastur spat, “you and your pansy need to fuck off, right now.”

“Oh, do we offend you, Hastur?” Asked Crowley, sweetly.

“ _ You _ offend me,” he snapped, “Just by existing. He, on the other hand, isn’t allowed at functions.”

“Well, Anathema said it was okay, so he stays.” Crowley smiled maliciously.

“Crowley, wipe that stupid grin off your face and get out of here!”

“Make me.” Crowley tried to square up to him, but managed a misshapen triangle shape instead.

Hastur’s black eyes bulged with rage, shoulders bucking with unbridled fury. After a few seconds he lunged forward, and waving a finger under Crowley’s nose hissed, “Right, you fucking twink, I don’t care for you at all, never have, never will, but I will not have you fuck up any briefs of mine, do I make myself clear? Or for the Dowling boy. He might be an arrogant little shit, but he’s my pupil, understand?”

“I’m not planning on bringing him over, Hastur. I’m not an idiot.”

“Good. Because I will find a way to fucking end you, boyo. Mothers’ll whisper your tale to their kids to warn them against stupidity.”

“Didn’t know I was a bedtime story you told your wife,” Crowley quipped.

“I will take you to the bloody cleaners, pal,” Hastur growled.

“What, like your ex did?” Crowley felt his body start to loosen, getting ready to duck or throw a punch.

Anathema got between them. “That’s enough, Crowley. We’re about to get seated for dinner.” She turned to Hastur. “We can talk about inviting your wife to the next function later, okay?”

Crowley didn’t hesitate, and left as quickly as he could.  _ Fucking dickhead _ , Crowley thought to himself, _ deserves everything he gets, leaving his wife and children for a kid _ .

He found Aziraphale and Beelzebub again easily, and slid his arm around Aziraphale’s waist, acclimatising himself to the conversation again.

“So Berith is still at school, but she’s got an offer from York for Psychology, so she’s pretty excited about that.”

“Oh, it’s a beautiful city,” nodded Aziraphale, “Very beautiful.”

“Cheap as well,” Beelzebub replied, relieved, “Cheaper than LSE, as I keep reminding Oeillet. For an economist she certainly spends a pretty penny.”

Aziraphale nodded along as Crowley’s eyes glazed over. They were thankfully interrupted by the staff letting them know that they were ready to serve.

Crowley gently guided them into the dining hall, and saw that seating had already been arranged at the oblong table. Aziraphale was sat at the left end, sandwiched between Anathema and Crowley, whilst they were buffered from the rest of Chambers by Newton, Adam and Pepper.

Crowley made sure Aziraphale was comfortable, and sat himself down, eyeing the empty wine glasses. He saw that he had full view of a projector screen. He cursed to himself. They’d be getting full frontal Luci later. And the wait staff were taking far too long with the wine.

“Pepper, you haven’t met Mr Celeste yet,” Adam nudged. “Mr Celeste, this is Pepper, she’s one of my oldest friends, and also a pupil here.”

Aziraphale smiled performatively, and said, “Lovely to meet you, Pepper, please call me Aziraphale.”

“I’ve heard loads about you,” said Pepper.

Aziraphale’s face fell. “Oh.”

“Well, I’ve heard more about the idea of you. And how you tamed Crowley.”

“I’m not tamed!” Crowley sulked.

“He’s very much not tamed,” Aziraphale said, with a certain amount of side-eye, “Now, Pepper, Crowley tells me that Ligur is your pupil master?”

“Pupil supervisor,” she automatically corrected, “And yes he is.”

“How’re you finding it?”

“Good, good, yeah, I’m even starting to get devilled out for briefs! Did some work for Hastur–”

“Let not talk shop,” Crowley growled. “You like Hamilton, right?”

“Oh yes! How did you find it?”

Crowley allowed himself to fade out of the conversation and made listening noises every so often. The wine finally arrived, and he focused on drinking it, trying not to keep looking at Hastur. Hastur seemed to be doing likewise, shooting him glaces occasionally across the table, then looking away.

Crowley heard the words  _ Shakespearean, complex _ and  _ pentameter _ float up from the discussion, as well as s _ o cool! _ and ‘ _ Boom! _ ’ There seemed to be some consternation that Aziraphale had never heard of Eminem or Biggie Smalls. And some vague talk that Crowley should introduce Aziraphale to their music, a thought he barely entertained before shoving to the back of his mind in a drawer labelled  _ bad ideas I will never do _ .

It wasn’t until the starter was served (some kind of pâté on freshly baked bread, save for Pepper and himself who received a small mushroom risotto, covered in cranberries and something else he didn’t recognise), that he was brought back to the room by Aziraphale saying, “You have a band?”

Crowley blinked, and felt himself returning to his body. Everyone else was tucking into their meat-paste as Pepper said, “Yeah, we’ve had a break because of University and stuff, but we have a gig in January, if you would like to come.”

“Oh, we’d be delighted,” Aziraphale smiled politely.

“Where’s the gig?” Crowley asked.

“Nambucca,” Adam added, “On the Holloway Road.”

“Didn’t that place burn down?”

“Yeah, it did,” Adam said sheepishly.

“And get closed down?”

“Yeah.”

Crowley felt himself resist the temptation to regale the table with a number of indiscretions he’d had at that toilet of a venue, and instead asked, “What’s your sound?”

“We get inspiration from everywhere,” said Pepper, “Post-punk, pop, soul…”

“And classic rock.” Adam grinned horribly, and held Crowley’s gaze as he said, “Like Franz Ferdinand. And The Killers.”

Crowley was very sure it would be a bad idea of punch the son of the head of Chambers, but in that moment, he felt an overwhelming desire to do so. “Classic rock!” he gasped in disbelief.

Adam knew exactly what he’d done. “Loads of old music. The Yeah Yeah Yeahs, Crystal Castles, the Kaiser Chiefs. Classics.”

“Very classic,” Crowley sulked. “So, when is it?”

Pepper gave them the date, which Crowley promptly forgot. However, Aziraphale brought a slightly tatty diary and a black and gold pen out of a pocket, and noted it down.

Crowley glared at the risotto in front of him. He took his fork, and took a cursory taste of it. It was creamy, with earthy notes, the mellow umami of the mushrooms contrasting with the sweet acidity of the cranberries.

Nope. Nice try. No. Fork down. “Angel, do you want mine?”

“Not very keen, dearest?” asked Aziraphale, a little concerned.

“No.”

“Would you like any of my–”

“No thanks. Pâté turns my stomach. It’s too close to meat paste.” He pushed his plate towards Aziraphale, and smiled, “Please.”

“If you’re sure, dearheart.” Aziraphale took a forkful, and delicately placed it between his lips. Crowley watched intently as Aziraphale let out a small sigh of pleasure. “Oh goodness, this is utterly wonderful! Are you very sure…”

“Oh, I’m sure,” Crowley purred, suddenly feeling floaty, “Very sure.”

Pepper and Adam watched as Crowley’s normally harsh expression changed to one of softness and adoration.

Crowley’s glass was refilled, and he took to watching Aziraphale from his seat, trying to hide his face behind the wineglass.

Once everyone had finished their first course, and the plates were cleared away, Newton asked, “So, why do they call you Angel, Mr Celeste?”

“It’s because you’re so cherubic, right?” said Crowley, arm around Aziraphale’s waist.

“Crowley!” Aziraphale squeaked, a little insulted.

“Blonde curls, young face, what’s not to like?” Crowley dug further.

“Dearheart, really!”

“Crowley, shut up.” Anathema interrupted, “That’s not why.”

“So, why then?” Crowley asked.

“I’ll tell you if you can shut up for a minute!” said Anathema, taking a gulp of wine. “So, when we first met, we’d already seen each other around college, but hadn’t spoken.”

“I was reading English,” Aziraphale explained, “And you were reading History. As I was not one for raucous parties, and very shy back then, I’d avoided a lot of college events.” 

Anathema continued. "Anyway, one night, I’d been invited to a house party on the Cowley Road but you gotta remember that I was barely 18, never drunk before in my life and trapped on this rock with this bunch of alcoholics. Several hours later I’m too drunk to walk, so in my infinite wisdom I decide to take my bike home. "

“We’ve all been there,” said Crowley, sagely. Newton looked horrified.

“So I get almost all the way back to Pembroke, but just as I get to the entrance I get knocked over by some jerk.”

“Ouch” added Newton.

“You were not knocked over,” said Aziraphale with a smile. “Maybe attacked by the cobbles.”

“ANYWAY! Anyway, there I was, trying to get my bike off me, and the next thing I see is your head, silhouetted by the street lamp.”

“You’d been lying in the street, swearing at the bike for about five minutes before I got to you!” Aziraphale said, smiling at her. “I’d been up, reading for my essay, and just as I was about to turn off my light, I hear this huge clatter from the street and see this reprobate outside my window–”

“–So he appears out of nowhere and lifts the bike off me–”

"–and the first thing she says to me is ‘are you an angel?’"

Crowley snorted with laughter. “Don’t get me wrong, I can see how she would make the mistake!”

“Oh, Crowley!” Aziraphale smiled, trying to hide his joy behind a suitable amount of hubris.

Anathema pressed on, “I don’t know how he got me back, but the next day I wake up in his bed, with Aziraphale making tea.”

“… I’d spent the night in my armchair, to be clear.” Aziraphale explained quickly.

“And he’d fixed my bike!” Anathema said happily.

Aziraphale smiled and said, “Anathema, dear, the chain had come off, that was all.”

“Yes, but you didn’t need to do that for someone you didn’t know!”

“Well, I could hardly leave you in the street,” Aziraphale cooed back, touching her hand gently, “You were in such a state.”

They were interrupted with food being served. A traditional Christmas dinner, plates piled with turkey, roast potatoes, carrots and greens, topped off with a large Yorkshire pudding, filled with pigs in blankets. It was more an architectural marvel than a meal, Crowley mused to himself.

Pepper awaited the inevitably disappointing vegan option, whilst everyone else started to eat.

Newton, who sensed a pause in the conversation, quickly asked, “So what’s everyone doing for Christmas?”

Anathema swallowed the cabbage she was eating and exclaimed, “Noooo! I forgot to book tickets back home! They’re going to be so expensive now!”

Newton looked like he’d just been told that he’d eaten someone’s pet cat.

“Anathema, Madame Tracy will be back in the country for Christmas - do you want to come to the bookshop? I’ll be hosting this year,” offered Aziraphale, kindly.

Crowley’s eyes widened as he choked on a roast potato.

“Angel, are you sure? Isn’t that, like, a family thing?”

“Nonsense.” Aziraphale cut a potato for emphasis, "You’re practically family. Moreso, in fact. I would love to have you there. "

Anathema smiled. “That would be great it you would. I’ll disappoint my mom, but to be honest, that ship sailed long ago.”

“And Mr Pulsifer, you would be welcome as well.”

Newton looked like he was about to be run over by the person whose pet cat he’d eaten. “Erm…”

“Newton,” Anathema placed a hand on his, “If you would like to come along…”

Crowley smiled like a vulture who’d just spotted fresh roadkill. Newton finally swallowed, painfully. “Yeah,” he croaked, “That would be nice.”

“Oh, that’s wonderful! Thank you so much!” Aziraphale looked a little relieved, before he muttered to Anathema, “I was a little scared that Christmas would be a bit awful, what with everything that’s happened…”

“Well, it’s got to be better than Christmas at Gabriel’s plantation,” she added, “I don’t know why you submitted yourself to that. Once was enough for me.”

“Your brother has a plantation?” asked Crowley.

“Yeah, a big luxury ‘plantation’ in Texas,” Anathema said, complete with air quotes, “It’s gross.”

“It’s not to my taste,” said Aziraphale politely, “Although, I do think building a new plantation house in the South is rather…new money.”

Crowley burst out laughing, “Angel, have you always been this catty?”

“I try not to judge,” Aziraphale said quietly.

“No, no, judge away. Even I can tell that’s tacky.” Crowley chuckled.

“Ugh, seriously, and Gabriel has everyone waiting on him the whole time, and Michael spent most of the time trying to piss you off when she wasn’t sucking up to Gabe.”

“Am I the only one here with a sane family?” Newton asked.

“Probably.” Crowley chewed thoughtfully.

They finished their meal, discussing Newton’s so-called ‘sane’ family.

His dad was a computer scientist who hated computers. Newton’s dad had spent two decades failing at animal husbandry before falling into programming and finally being able to keep a steady job. There didn’t seem to be a story about his father which didn’t involve an animal biting him, knocking him over, gouging him with a horn or antler or otherwise ending up in some sort of scrape. Newton was now waxing poetic about the chinchilla his father had adopted, that had put him in the hospital three times in the past year.

“I’m not sure why Buttons hates my dad so much when he just wants to be friends with him, but mum has to handle him when he cleans his cage. Buttons loves me, but I’m a bit allergic to him.”

“Of course you’re allergic to him,” Crowley muttered as he unsubtly moved his yorkshire pudding onto Aziraphale’s plate.

“He got into my room recently, when dad left the door of his cage open, and I didn’t realise he was in there until I started sneezing. Oh, and the desktop I was building burst into flames. Buttons had been chewing on the wires; how Buttons was fine but the desktop was on fire I’ll never work out…”

“Oh dear, that sounds dreadful,” said Aziraphale sympathetically.

“But I’d left my wig and robes next to the desktop, so they’re now on fire. So I’m trying to shoo Buttons out without touching him, when Dad comes by the room, and Buttons leaps up and bites him in the…err…umm…privates!” Newton absentmindedly bit into one of the sausages, “So I’m sneezing, and can’t get a word out, and my dad is screaming as Buttons is locked on his you-know-whats, and the fire is starting to spread. Luckily Mum came by with one of the fire extinguishers we keep in the house and managed to get me out before putting it out. As I leave, Buttons lets go of my Dad’s, erm, thingies, and then burrows into my coat pocket and won’t get out. I was already late for court at that point, so had to run, without my coat, or my robes. I’m wearing a suit, but it’s covered in chinchilla hair and smoke, so by the time I get to court, Dagon is very upset with me.”

“Oh, what a dreadful morning!” Aziraphale swallowed the rock-hard sprout he’d been chewing on in an effort not to laugh. “When was that?”

“Oh, that was Tuesday,” Newton replied matter-of-factly.

Crowley sniggered. Then he guffawed. Then he howled with laughter. Newton turned beetroot red. Anathema gave Crowley a death look. Crowley, with tears of laughter leaking out of his eyes gasped, “How does this stuff keep happening to you? Seriously, how?”

“I… I’m not sure,” Newton muttered sheepishly.

“Oh sweet Satan and all his little pixies, you are hilarious.” Crowley breathed, and then started coughing.

“What’s so funny?” asked Ligur, who’d appeared behind them.

“Ugh, nothing, Crowley’s just an idiot,” Anathema replied, rolling her eyes.

“I can’t breathe,” Crowley giggled.

“Smoke break?” asked Ligur.

Crowley giggle-wheezed a few more times before finally croaking out, “Yes!” He patted Aziraphale on the shoulder and said, “I’ll be right back.”

Ligur led them to the smoking area, a bare courtyard with a rather sad-looking Christmas tree in the corner.

Ligur got out his vape and said, “Hastur is pissed.”

“Booze or anger?” asked Crowley.

“Both,” Ligur laughed, and said, “If there isn’t drama, it’s not a Brimstone Christmas party.”

“How’re you doing at the adults’ end of the table?” Crowley asked, lighting his cigarette.

Ligur sighed. “Dagon’s smashed and is egging Hastur on, Warlock looks like he wants to jump in a pit of sulphur, Beelzebub looks like she wants to join him, and Hastur is trying to be bitchy but it’s just coming off as vitriol. How’re the kids?”

“Not bad,” Crowley conceded. “Apparently Adam and Pepper have a band.”

“Ah, The Them. They tried to get you along to their gig yet?”

“Yep. And Angel’s said we’ll go.”

Ligur laughed. “Well, I’m sure you’ll want to christen the new Nambucca with the Prince Regent.”

“No. Never again. I’m too old for that.”

“Crowley, I never thought I’d hear you say that. You’re a changed man!”

“That’s not change. That’s old age.”

The door to the courtyard burst open, and Dagon fell through it, almost tripping on the edge of her murky blue mermaid dress. “CROWLEY,” she yelled, weaving towards him like a fish, “FAGS PLEASE.”

Crowley pulled a cigarette out of his pack and passed it to her. “Here you go.”

“Okay, I’m heading back inside!” said Ligur, seeing a chance to escape. Crowley cursed him silently.

“Aren’t you lighting it?” she demanded.

Crowley sighed, and pulled out his silver lighter with the snake embossed on the case. Cupping the flame from the slight breeze, he lit it.

Dagon breathed it in, and relaxed a little. “Hey you”, she grinned, “Brought your boyf’ to show off!”

“It’s a work Christmas party. I’m showing him a bad time,” Crowley replied.

“He’s cuuuuuute,” she slurred, leaning back on the wall, “How’re you with someone so cute?”

“Luck, I suppose,” Crowley replied, shrugging his shoulders.

“Hastur is a dick. He’s being all shitty about you.”

“I know, Dagon.”

“Ugh, he’s such a shit. And smells like shit. I hate him. I haaaaate him.”

“Great, Dagon.”

Dagon took a drag of the cigarette, and blowing the smoke away from Crowley said, “How does it feel?”

“How does what feel?”

“To have someone love you?” she asked, like she didn’t quite understand the words.

Crowley’s heart started bearing in his ears. “What?” he asked, stupidly.

“I’ve been watching you two. You’re so cute together. I’ve seen the way you look at him. I’ve seen the way he looks at you. He looks at you like you threw the stars. I want someone to look at me like that.”

Crowley was speechless for a moment. Then, taking a drag on his cigarette, said, “What about your dates?”

She shook her head. “No. Not like that. And I’m not getting any younger.”

“What? Dagon, don’t tell me you’ve fallen for that bullshit about needing a man–”

“–I want a baby.”

Crowley had no idea how to deal with this, so he tried to make a joke, “Well, I’m not exactly at risk of that!”

“You don’t understand,” she pouted, “It’s not just about a baby. It’s about having someone who wants to have a baby with me. It’s…” She trailed off, and three the butt on the ground. “I’m going back in.”

She stormed back in, leaving Crowley alone with his cigarette. He finished it, staring at his feet and kicking at the loose stones.

When Crowley headed in, he was horrified to find that Ligur had sat down between Aziraphale and Anathema, chatting animatedly.

Crowley half-walked, half-ran over, and overheard Aziraphale saying, “…well, if you’re interested, we’ll be hosting Christmas this year, at the bookshop.”

“That sounds wonderful,” Ligur grinned, catching Crowley’s eye, “Thanks for the invite!”

“Ligur, what’re you doing?” Crowley growled at him.

“As you were outside, smoking, I was having a chat with your delightful friend,” Aziraphale replied, archly.

“You’d never told him that we’d been at Cambridge together!” Ligur said, with mock outrage. “Frankly, I feel insulted.”

“Haven’t you got a seat to return to?” Crowley said.

Ligur stood up, and eyes flicking towards Crowley’s momentarily before leaving, said, “See you for Christmas.”

Crowley pulled the chair up, and whispered, “What’s he been saying?”

“Nothing bad,” Aziraphale replied, “Just wanted to say hello.”

“So why’s he coming for Christmas?” Crowley asked.

“He said he wanted to catch up with you, so I invited him.”

“Oh hell.” Crowley was glad that his glasses hid some of his displeasure.

“It will be lovely!” Aziraphale whispered back, as if saying it enough times would make it true. “He seems like someone worth keeping on side, and he almost certainly won’t come.”

“Keeping on side?” hissed Crowley.

“It’s been a while since I’ve been at one of these functions, but one can pick up on the politics of an organisation. Mr Santos might be in charge, but Ligur is vying to be third in command. He’d never push Beelzebub, but Hastur?” Aziraphale looked across the room, at Ligur returning to his seat and gently patting Hastur on the back, “Almost certainly.”

“And me?”

“He knows you’re useful,” Aziraphale’s eyes smiled with knowing, “And you owing him a favour is a position that he likes.”

“Since when did you become an expert in these things?”

“Dearest,” Aziraphale sipped from his glass, “I may be rather naive, but you don’t grow up in the Celeste family without learning how to pick up on…dynamics, even if I’ve never mastered how to work a room.”

Crowley was stunned. “You bastard,” he hissed in Aziraphale’s ear.

Crowley, for the first time in his adult life, felt very glad to be saved by dessert.

Aziraphale was served an individual Christmas pudding, accompanied by homemade vanilla ice cream. By this point it was clear that Crowley’s dietary idiosyncrasies had been discussed and misunderstood entirely; he was served some kind of sticky sponge pudding soaked in a fig compote. The idea of it turned his stomach.

“Would you like some of my dessert?”

Aziraphale looked him in the eye and let out a little chuckle of his own. “Only if you actually eat some first.”

Crowley sighed at the imposition. “Alright then!” He sulked, and stuck the spoon in, and gulped down a glob of stewed fruit without tasting it.

Aziraphale gave him a look. Crowley rolled his eyes and took another spoonful of the fruit, and sucked it down.

“Thank you dearest,” Aziraphale smiled, and gave him a quick peck on the lips, before pulling the plate towards himself. Crowley stared at him with a dazed, dreamy expression, his lips shifting into a lopsided smile.

Anathema gave Crowley a knowing look, causing Crowley to look away and take another sip from his glass.

By the time the dessert plates were taken away, the only people in the room who were not entirely inebriated were Beelzebub, who had been alternating her drinks with water; Aziraphale, who was gently sliding from merely squiffy into sloshed; and Anathema, who whilst rather buzzed, knew that oblivion was one Skype call away.

Anathema got up to speak to Beelzebub, as the time approached. Newton, who was obviously not used to the alcohol found himself leaning on Crowley and hissing, “Mr Crowley, Mr Crowley! Annannannannathffffsssssmaaaaa…I really like her….”

“Yup, you do,” Crowley replied.

“But I really like her!” Newton hiccupped, “I think she’s amazing.”

“I’m sure you do.”

“L…I need a favour,” Newton asked, “And you owe me.”

“What the hell… you’re already going out. I know that.”

Newton looked shocked. “You do?”

“This is not a chamber of secrets,” he scoffed, “It’s a chamber of curtain-twitchers and gossip. Of course everyone knows you’re dating.”

“Oh.” Newton looked a little deflated.

“If you want a favour, talk to Angel. He can tell you whatever you need to know–”

Anathema returned quickly and putting a hand on Aziraphale’s shoulder said, “Okay, you two, skedaddle. Luci’s speech is about to start.”

Aziraphale nodded with understanding. “C’mon Crowley. Let’s make ourselves scarce for a little bit.”

Crowley got up, and taking a bottle of red wine from one of the servers, led Aziraphale to the smoking area.

Once the door clicked closed behind them, they both giggled, and Crowley gave him a gentle kiss, wrapping his arms around him. “I have been waiting since we got here to do this…”

“Oh have you?” Aziraphale cooed back, “Well, I would be a terrible guest if I disappointed you…”

“I think,” said Crowley, “That you are a perfect guest, especially if I get out of Luci’s speech, the old windbag. Glad he’s away at the moment, otherwise it would go on forever.”

Aziraphale took the bottle from Crowley’s hand and took a swig. “To be honest, it’s not been too bad, so far. Lots of decent wine.”

“Probably because Anathema sat us as far away from Hastur as possible. The food’s been horrible.”

“Always is at these things,” Aziraphale said dreamily, mind befuddled by wine and lust. “I think that’s why boarding school food is so horrible, so one can go through these sorts of dinners with some grace.”

“Makes me glad to be working class scum,” Crowley smiled.

Aziraphale gave him a kiss on the nose. Crowley felt his face morph into a silly grin. He couldn’t help but find these moments so very precious; it hadn’t been long since he’d thought everything had been lost. He held Aziraphale tighter, the memory of that pain haunting him. “I’m never going to let you go,” he said, voice muffled by Aziraphale’s shoulder.

Aziraphale seemed to understand what he meant. “I’m never going to let anything make me doubt you again.” He wiggled an arm free enough to put the bottle down, and gently pushed Crowley up against the wall, pinning him there with his soft heft.

Crowley flushed red, as Aziraphale gave him a knowing grin. “Dearest, why so coy?”

“It’s not fair!” Crowley croaked, “You’re teasing me now!”

“Oh, what’s not fair?” Aziraphale asked, leaning in and kissing his neck.

“You’re teasing me,” Crowley whined, but with little conviction as little gasps escaped his lips.

“Oh, how am I teasing you?” Aziraphale purred, taking pleasure in Crowley’s pain.

“You’re…oh Satan that feels good…ahhhh…awwhhh…I… I’ve…I…iiaaaahhhh…Angel! I’m too drunk!” Crowley admitted miserably, “I’m willing, I’m very willing, but I don’t think…”

Aziraphale stopped kissing his neck. “Oh, dearest…”

“No, no, no, this is fine, this I like, but I’m not going to be able to…”

Aziraphale shifted slightly, and Crowley found himself hugging him rather than being pinned to the wall. He sunk into the hug and kissed Aziraphale in relief.

“Sorry, Angel” he muttered.

“Nothing to be sorry for,” Aziraphale comforted, “I’m rather drunk myself…”

Their embrace was rudely interrupted by Adam, bursting through the door to the smoking area. His hands trembled as he slammed the door open, eyes burning with angry tears.

He looked as if he wanted to start screaming, but instead he slumped onto the bench, limbs weighed down like they were made of lead, and with something between a gasp and a sob said, “I need a cigarette.”

Crowley, a little shocked, got his cigarettes out of his pocket and muttered, “Does no one else in this chambers buy their own?” before holding out the pack, silver lighter tucked inside, to Adam.

Adam took a cigarette, and fingers shaking, lit it on his third go.

“Dear boy, are you quite alright?” asked Aziraphale sympathetically, sitting next to the boy.

Adam breathed in a ragged breath and said, “He knows. Dad knows and he just…” Adam held his cigarette between his fingers as he thought, “He just…he knows that the prize for most promising pupil means…”

Aziraphale looked at Crowley for help. Crowley rolled his eyes and said, “It’s not important. Half the time the pupil who wins it doesn’t get tenancy, it’s just a way for Luci to get competition going and use up any John Lewis vouchers he’s got.”

“But he gave it to Pepper!” Adam cried out, “And she’s not worked on any of the big cases I have! And he talked about Warlock doing well, he even had something nice to say about Newt! Didn’t mention me at all…” By this time, tears were starting to creep down his face, “It’s like I don’t even exist to him…”

Aziraphale put a hand on his shoulder, “Oh dear–”

“Just because I don’t want to be a civil barrister! He told me he won’t have me visit him this year, an’ Mum and Dad are on holiday an’, an’, an’…” Adam trailed off, racked with sobs.

“Oh poor boy…if you don’t have anywhere to go this Christmas, well, we’re hosting at the bookshop. Would you like to come?”

Adam looked at him, taking time to focus through the tears and the drink, until he nodded, and replied with a small “yes”, punctuated either side with a croak.

Crowley glowered at Aziraphale who ignored him in favour of patting the boy on the back and offering him a handkerchief.

Suddenly the door burst open again, this time Warlock pushing it open angrily. “Adam, Pepper’s really mad at you for…”

Adam looked up, tears now streaming down his face.

Warlock was a little taken aback, but continued, “… she’s mad at you for running out.”

“Why does she care?” Adam said sulkily, “She’s Luci’s favourite, now.”

Warlock looked genuinely outraged. “Pepper’s your friend! You should be happy for her! You should be happy for all of us getting a mention!”

“Except me!” Adam shouted, tears making his voice ragged, “He didn’t even acknowle–”

“–that’s because he’ll give you tenancy if you ask!” Warlock replied, rolling his eyes, “He’s just makin’ you sweat for it.”

“I don’t want tenancy!” He shouted, edging closer to full-blown hysteria, “I just want him to acknowledge me!”

“He’s not going to give you what you want!” Warlock replied, raising his volume to match Adam’s, “Dads never do! They just ignore you unless you give them what they want! My Dad doesn’t even care what I’m doing because he wanted me to do internships at The White House! He doesn’t care that I’m bustin’ my ass under Hastur, gettin’ him his coffee, tryin’ to prove myself every single day, just like your dad doesn’t care about what you want. An’ that’s why we have to go get what we want. ’cause no one else will!”

Adam pushed himself up, and looked like he was about to wrestle Warlock to the ground. He grabbed Warlock either side of his head, lunged, and viciously kissed him.

Crowley and Aziraphale were both in shock. As Adam and Warlock kissed, pushing each other up against the wall, they passed the wine bottle between each other.

The door to the courtyard swung open. Hastur was mid-roll of his cigarette, and stared at the scene.

Adam and Warlock broke apart, staring back at Hastur. Crowley and Aziraphale looked like drunk rabbits in headlights.

"I came here for a smoke, not to attend Brimstone’s first buggers’ convention," he groaned, “An’ Dowling? Oh, for fuck’s sake…”

Hastur stuck the rollie behind his ear and pulled Warlock off Adam with a grunt, before turning him around and waving his finger in his face. “Stop acting the maggot! There aren’t even any rules about not snogging the opposing counsel, because it’s so bloody obvious! Has the whole world gone to a fecking…” Hastur paused, waving his other hand around for emphasis before sighing,“…Vauxhall sex party while I wasn’t looking?”

“Well, you smell of poo!” Warlock shouted back.

Hastur looked genuinely hurt. “Have you two put him up to this?” Demanded Hastur, poking a nicotine stained finger at Crowley.

Crowley, waving his hands about flamboyantly, said, “Hastur, I can see his point, but no, I didn’t.”

“You’re dead meat, Crowley!” He shouted, “You’re bloody history!”

“Whilst the way you smell is a sensitive topic, I’ve stayed away from him–”

“As you should, you fecking poof,” Hastur opened the door back into the hall dramatically and said, “I’m not staying here with all you faggots, I’m going back inside with the normal people.”

He looked through and saw that Newton and Anathema were necking in a corner.

Hastur stepped back into the courtyard, door closing excruciatingly slowly with a loud creak.

He turned back to the assembled people and said, “…on second thoughts, I’ll stay here. Crowley, you got a light?”

“Yeah.” Crowley passed him the silver lighter, which Hastur used to light the hand rolled cigarette, before passing it back.

“We’re going back inside now, I presume the speech is over?” said Crowley.

“Yup, go back in you flash bastard,” Hastur grunted half-heartedly.

“Ta.” Crowley led Aziraphale back into the dining room. As desserts and the speech were now done, the guests had stood up and were now politely mingling around the table until they could leave.

Crowley look around, and saw a shellshocked Pepper being gingerly comforted by Ligur. They caught each other’s eyes for a moment, and seemed to understand that Ligur was giving them an out.

“Shall we head home, Angel?” Crowley asked, linking his arm with Aziraphale’s.

“I think, under the circumstances, it may be for the best.”


	17. Christmas time (don't let the bells end)

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> A short fragment of plot whilst I get the next chapter ready.
> 
> **Content Warning: Deadnaming happens. Please be good to yourselves**

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Hi all!
> 
> I promise this isn't a dead fic! Just the next couple of chapters have been giving me far more problems than I thought they would. That said, please have this fragment of plot in the meantime.
> 
> I'm hoping to be back on schedule from Sunday after next. I'm catsitting, so treating it as a writer's retreat (With the advantage of getting to pet a cat.)
> 
> **Content Warning: Deadnaming happens. Please be good to yourselves**

Michael was walking up and down the room in the retreat she had booked, hand flapping nervously, waiting for Gabriel's call. 

She reminded herself that this was the best thing, even if it felt like she was about to throw herself into a pit of sulphur. She couldn't go on like this. She was going to get herself fixed, and ready to go back to work. Maybe Gabriel would even congratulate her on her self-knowledge, putting Celeste & Co first. Celeste & Co, her family, always needed to come first. 

The room filled with the bleeping of the incoming skype call.  _ Right Michael, _ she thought to herself,  _ You can do this _ . She breathed in through her nose slowly, then out through the mouth, and smoothed down the horrifically feminine top she was wearing. Then, hands shaking, she sat down and accepted the call. 

Gabriel looked furious. Even in the Skype window she could see the way his shoulders moved, a tic barely perceptible to anyone other than a sibling, seething with fury. Michael was glad that the glare in Gabriel's violet eyes was mediated by a screen.

"What is this?" he spat, like a parent at the end of his rope.

"I...I assume you got my papers from HR," she said, her voice business-like while her hands shook with anxiety. 

"Yes. Medical leave. For a month." Each full stop felt like an ice age.

"That...that was what the doctor recommended." Michael looked away, pulling her top straight.

"Medical leave from work. For being depressed," he scoffed. "I thought I could rely on you, _Michelle_."

Michael visibly flinched. "You can," she replied, "But right now, I'm--"

"--not well? Really? I haven't been able to contact you for two weeks, and suddenly you're ill?"

She stared at her shaking hands. "It's all been...hard on me recently."

"Oh, hard on you?" Gabriel looked so furious that he was at risk of losing his composure. Then, as if remembering something, he said,"I wish you'd spoken to me first. You're my sister. I would hope you'd feel able to talk to your own family when you're feeling  _ weak _ ."

Oh, that word.  _ Weak _ . Felt like a punch. "I... I'm sorry,” she said, feeling dizzy. 

"I've been worried about you,” said Gabriel, voice softening with concern, “Wondering if you're all right, and then we get a doctor's note saying that you're ill…I'm glad you're okay. You scared me. I don't want to lose another sibling."

"Thank you Gabriel." She smiled, then, looking between the screen and her hands she said, "Gabriel, about..."

"About Aziraphale." Gabriel's expression shifted from kind to hard.

"Yes." Michael took a moment to steel herself and then said, "I...I'm sorry about failing you."

"Apology accepted," Gabriel said, unconvincingly, "In any case, you didn't fail me. You failed him. You weren't able to convince him to come home, and be treated for his sickness. I can see how that would leave you devastated."

"Yes." Michael looked back at her hands, and replied back in a voice that had been hollowed out, "It's been very hard on me."

"I'm not surprised. He's throwing everything we stand for in our faces. I don't get why he would throw all of this away."

"I don't either." Michael felt her hands curl up into fists.

"You've always been so great at looking out for him. Even when I couldn't be there. Just as father wanted." 

"Yeah."

"Well, at least it's just depression.” He smiled as he said, “It's the common cold of mental illness, y'know."

"Yes, Gabriel."

"So, Michelle, you've got a month to get yourself together. With our insurance, that should be a piece of cake!"

"Yes Gabriel."

"You've always been a tough cookie, Michelle. A strong woman. Always ready to go that extra mile." He beamed.

"Yes."

"Always putting the family first. It's what's made you the best chief operating officer I could have asked for."

"Yes." Michael looked up, and felt herself bask in the heat of the compliment.

"Right, I've got to go into a meeting now, but I'll see you at Christmas?"

"I'll see." 

"Well, there's always a space for you at the Celeste Plantation." Gabriel smiled. "Get well soon."

"Thanks, Gabe." 

The call ended, and Michael lay back in the chair, exhausted.  _ Well, that went well _ , she thought to herself,  _ so why do I feel like my skin doesn't fit? _


	18. City of Christmas Ghosts

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Back once again with the Christmas Chapters! D4 damager, four weeks late, oh this behavior...
> 
> ...oh. That thing. 
> 
> Chapter Title comes from [Goldblade ft Poly Styrene 'City Of Christmas Ghosts'](https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=GL50k6gLWWo), which is will worth a listen if you're a fan of Punk Rock, X-Ray Spex or the work of Poly Styrene.
> 
> ** Content Warning - Reference to Alcoholism and abuse of children. ******

As Christmas approached, Chambers became quieter and quieter. Court cases were being surreptitiously delayed or moved to the new year; client meetings were suddenly impossible to schedule, or became conference calls for those working from home. By the time Christmas rolled around, the only regulars in Chambers were Crowley, Anathema, the pupils and their masters. 

Crowley was desperately trying to get a brief wrapped up before the end of the year, and unfortunately it took him away from the shop. Or fortunately, depending on how you looked at it. 

Aziraphale planned like a man possessed by the spirit of Christmas, who would not rest until every person on Earth had been exposed to dangerous levels of peace and goodwill. Every time Crowley came home, there seemed to be some new decoration up, some new contraption in their little kitchen, or tale about the local shopkeepers trying to get supplies in. Crowley mainly listened and nodded when it seemed appropriate. 

Growing up, Christmas meant getting a market stall knock-off of that year's hot toy, and watching TV until his mother, who’d usually been drinking since breakfast, either fell asleep or found some reason to be upset and scream at him until she passed out. 

As a young adult it meant being pitied and invited into other people's families, observing them like an anthropologist, trying to work out their social conventions and allegiances, whilst staying out of the way. 

Lately Christmas had meant not seeing anyone for a few days, sleeping in, treating himself to takeout from whatever place was open, and indulging in a movie marathon and a bottle of wine. Frankly, he didn't understand why Christmas needed to involve so much fuss. 

Anathema popped her head around the door. "I've been given orders to make sure you leave by six tonight."

"I think I've almost finished this advice," he replied, not looking up, "Just need to finish this sentence, quick smoke break, then check over before sending, so could be home early at this rate."

"Angel'll be pleased. I'll see you tomorrow..."

"Wait, tomorrow?" he asked stupidly.

"Yeah, I'm helping tidy up the shop a bit."

"But the shop is fine!"

"It's not... Crowley, what on Earth are you wearing?"

Crowley looked down at his outfit for today; snakeskin Chelsea boots, polished within an inch of their life by Aziraphale ("You can't possibly wear those! They're scuffed! Pass them here!"); black skinny jeans cut to show off his slim, long legs; and a beige cable knit jumper that he'd taken from the washing basket. 

"Clothes," he sulked, hiding his face in the oversized sweater.

"Is..." Anathema's face split into a smirk, "Is that one of Angel's sweaters?"

"...yes." Crowley snuggled into it further, breathing in that scent of Aziraphale's cologne mixed with his musk.

"Oh my God," she giggled, "You are so soppy!"

"I'm not!" Crowley argued weakly, "I was cold and I don't have any jumpers at the shop!"

"Crowley, that's pathetic!" 

"Shut up." Crowley did not stop snuggling into the jumper.

"You are so sweet on him it's unreal!"

"Well..." Crowley felt his heart swell with warmth at the thought of his Angel. "Yes, I am. It's true. But what about your fancy man! You two have gone from basically strangers to playing tonsil tennis at the Christmas party in no time! At least Angel and I got to know each other first!"

"Oh please, you practically moved in with Angel after, what, a month?"

"Yeah...at least it took a month!"

"Hello kettle, it's me, pot."

"Is your pet Newt coming over tomorrow as well?"

"No, he's got some work to do with Dagon, who's picking up your slack, may I remind you?"

"Oh, yeah, that."

"That, and it'll go a bit smoother without him there, to be honest."

"I thought he was the hero of the hour?"

"He is! He's just...a bit clumsy," she admitted.

They sat for a moment, Anathema looking a little shamefaced about saying anything bad about him, and Crowley feeling a minor pang of guilt for bringing it up. 

"Well, I'm just going to..." he said, trying to close the topic.

Anathema took the out. "Sure. Get it all sorted."

* * *

Crowley did manage to finish his advice early, although some of that was by being sloppier than he would have liked, and by promising the client a meeting in the new year to answer any questions.

He rushed back to the shop to find Greta and Rose separating out a delivery order, with Rose taking anything which needed refrigerating up the stairs.

Crowley inwardly sighed at the chaos, and walked in.

Greta spotted him and with a wave shouted, "Hey, Mr Crowley!"

"Hello Greta," he said, eyes darting around the room, "Where's Mr Celeste?"

"Aziraphale's just upstairs. Can you take up this bag? It's all frozen stuff."

Crowley peered inside the plastic bag, full of frozen vegetables. "He knows that we're feeding eleven people, right? Not half of Soho?"

Greta looked at him, as if she had special knowledge he didn't. "You've never seen one of our charity events, have you?" she asked, with a smug grin. "You always overcater. That way the staff get food for the next week, and you can donate anything unopened to food banks." 

Crowley didn't find this quite as obvious as she did. He wondered if this applied only to food, or if bottles of fine wine ended up being donated as well. 

He grabbed the bag, and trying not to let on how heavy he found it, went up the stairs to the flat.

He found Aziraphale in the kitchenette, playing a frustrating game of Tetris with the ice box in the fridge. Rose passed him the occasional packet, as requested.

"Hey, Angel..."

Aziraphale shoved a packet of sausage rolls in roughly, and turned around, playing his icy hands on Crowley's face whilst placing a soft kiss on his lips. Crowley shivered from the cold of his fingers. Aziraphale looked up into his face, as Crowley removed the sunglasses.

"Hello dearest," he whispered dreamily, looking into his eyes. Then, as if suddenly remembering that the world existed outside of Crowley's eyes, he looked as if he'd realised something horrific and exclaimed, "Oh! I hoped to have this all dealt with by the time you got home! I'm running late..."

"Shhhh, no you're not," Crowley said comfortingly, "I'm running early. I won't need to go in again until the new year."

Aziraphale looked a little relieved, but still rather anxious. "Pass me that bag! Rose, can you help him with anything else that needs to live up here; Greta has the list."

"Err, okay Aziraphale."

"Thank you, dears," Aziraphale cooed, "I appreciate all the help..."

Rose and Crowley exchanged looks as Aziraphale went back to trying to fit as much stuff as possible into the freezer section. 

They went back downstairs, where Greta had separated out the 'upstairs' and 'downstairs' food. 

Between Crowley and Rose, they only needed one trip upstairs, and then it was a matter of piling up the 'downstairs' food (which turned out to be boxes of chocolates, mince pies and other food for nibbles), and making space for the table. 

Making space for the table was easier said than done. 

An attempt to move books out of the way and correctly file them had been made earlier in the day, but due to the sheer volume and short time period, a decision was made just to move the piles to the approximately right section, and leave them there. 

Crowley couldn't help but notice that Aziraphale had rolled his sleeves up, revealing his strong, thick, forearms. Despite having been lucky enough to see him naked on more than one occasion, he was rather distracted by the display of his muscles tensing and relaxing as he lifted books. He unsubtly watched the way his pale skin rippled with the movement, the fine, blonde hairs that covered his arms...he tried not to think about those arms holding him in place with their strength.

Once done, Greta and Rose made their excuses and left, for which Crowley and Aziraphale were very grateful. Once they'd left, they headed back to the flat at the top of the shop, where Aziraphale sat down in front of the incomprehensible plans he'd laid over the coffee table. 

Crowley squeezed himself into the kitchenette, opened a bottle of wine, and collapsed on the sofa, laying his head in Aziraphale's lap. Aziraphale, acknowledging him by ruffling his hair, pored over the plans.

Crowley, after a moment of settling his thoughts, said, "What're all these?"

"Plans for Christmas," he replied, "So far we're on track. Space has been cleared for the table, which will be arriving tomorrow, and more wine will be coming as well..."

"Angel, it's Christmas, not the Schlieffen Plan!" He exclaimed, "I don't see the point of all this fuss. We've got enough food here to feed an army."

"Crowley, Christmas is no laughing matter! It takes a lot of preparation, especially for guests! "

"It's just a lunch surrounded by drinking either side. It'll be fine." Crowley said, wriggling into a more comfortable position.

Aziraphale sighed. "I hate to admit it, but all this planning, it's been...fun."

"Fun?" Crowley grunted softly.

Aziraphale lay back, running his fingers through Crowley's hair. "Yes. It's been a while since I've put anything together like this. And with Greta here, helping out..." he closed his eyes, looking for the words, "...I didn't realise how bored I had been getting, without anything to do."

"Yeah, starting a love affair with your lawyer and getting kidnapped by your family'll give you plenty to do for a while," Crowley said, casually.

Aziraphale laughed. "When you put it like that..." His fingers stopped moving through Crowley's hair. "I've been keeping myself busy. These last few months, they've been...so much. This time last year I was dreading a visit to Texas, trying to make sure I had bought the right presents, trying to think of things to talk about that wouldn't cause a fight. I used to be so scared of starting a fight." Aziraphale smiled a half-hearted smile, before announcing, "Now I've started a war."

"It's not so bad, is it?" Crowley asked, a little uncertain.

"No. It isn't." Aziraphale surprised himself with his answer. "It really isn't. I never thought I could be this happy."

"Isn't that a good thing?" asked Crowley, shifting himself improbably.

"Yes," Aziraphale decided, before adding, "But everything feel so uncertain. Like the whole world is heading for Armageddon, and it'll end if we don't do anything. But we can't do anything. Not right now."

Crowley fell silent. This was the real pain of the legal system. Not the nasty letters or the paperwork, not even the knock-down, drag-out court cases. It was the waiting, the uncertainty, being left both on tenterhooks and without anything to do. 

He searched for Aziraphale's hand with his, and held it. "Whatever happens, I'll be with you. That's a threat, not a promise. We'll find a way to make it work. Always." 

"Even if I end up destitute, in the gutter?"

"Well, it won't be the gutter. You could stay at mine, if you like."

"Really?"

"Yes, really! It's a bit small, but I'd rather have you cluttering up the place there, than not have you at all."

"Oh." Aziraphale seemed surprised. 

"And if that didn't work, maybe I could sell it and we could move into a cottage in the South Downs or something?"

"Oh!" Aziraphale sounded even more surprised. 

"See, there's always a way," Crowley said, grinning up at him.

"You'd...do that for me?" Aziraphale asked.

"Yeah. In a heartbeat."

Aziraphale was quiet for a moment, and squeezed Crowley's hand. "I... wouldn't ask that of you, you know."

"Maybe not. But you could, if you needed it." Crowley sat up stiffly, and planted a kiss on Aziraphale's cheek. "Did you get anything for dinner in that lot, or do you want me to take you out?"

"Hmm, if you don't mind something easy, I'd quite like to stay in with you." Aziraphale hummed in Crowley's ear in such a way as to make the hairs on the back of his neck stand up. 

"Oh, you would?"

"Oh yes," Aziraphale said, his voice suddenly dripping like honey. Aziraphale gently touched Crowley's shoulders, looking him up and down. "You do look very handsome in my jumper, but I would rather see you take it off."

"Funny you should say that," Crowley replied, with a purr, "I was thinking the same thing about your shirt..."

* * *

Crowley had been allowed to sleep in, but was rudely awoken by the sounds of Anathema and Aziraphale shifting furniture and chatting loudly. 

He groaned under the pillow, and lay in bed for ten minutes, listening to the muffled laughter and the bumps and crash of furniture. He finally dragged himself out of bed, throwing on yesterday's jeans and another of Angel's jumpers from the laundry basket. He pulled the navy blue rollneck over his head, and enjoyed the way the cuffs hung down to his fingertips, the hem falling past his butt. Crowley wasn't sure he'd ever get bored of being wrapped up in Aziraphale.

He crept down the stairs, his footsteps barely perceptible underneath the clatter of furniture.

"Angel, you know I think this is dumb, right?"

"Anathema dear, I know you do, but can you understand my perspective on the matter?"

"Not really. How long have you--"

"--I know it's not been very long--"

"--exactly."

"But I've not really thought about it before. Aside from..." he made some sort of complicated shrug that Anathema understood. 

Anathema's grip on the desk slipped slightly. "We can't make any more room without moving shelves," she replied brusquely.

Crowley suspected that he wasn't going to hear more of that conversation. "Good morning!" he said. "Do you need any help?"

"Afternoon," Anathema grunted, "We've got this." Aziraphale and Anathema placed the desk flush against the wall. 

Crowley casually draped himself over Aziraphale, hands resting on his hips, before planting a kiss on his Angel's neck. Aziraphale did his best not to shudder in excitement. "What're you two talking about?"

"Got a job for you!" Anathema said proudly. "We need to to go out and get a Bluetooth speaker."

A flicker of confusion crossed Aziraphale’s face before he seemed to remember, and said, "Oh yes!...I don't have much Christmas music, so we were thinking you could connect up your mobile telephone and play music through it."

Crowley was incredibly suspicious as he looked into their pleadingly innocent faces. 

He raised an eyebrow, and slowly slid on his coat. "Why does this feel like a plan to get me out of the way?"

Anathema gently pushed him towards the door. "Because it is! See you in an hour or two!"

As he stumbled onto the street, he heard the door slam behind him.  _ Right, that's me told _ , he thought to himself. 

* * *

Crowley returned to the shop two hours later, the speaker box tucked under his arm. 

"Right, are you done in here..." he asked, pushing the door open. 

He found Anathema and Aziraphale sitting cross-legged on the floor, giggling at each other. Behind them sat a folded table and 12 folded chairs, leaning neatly against the wall. Aside from the table and chairs having been brought in, it was evident that very little had been done, save a pot of tea having been made and mince pies having been procured from the mountain of food in the kitchen. 

His arrival elicited a fresh round of giggles from the two of them, setting each other off every time they exchanged looks.

Crowley, exhausted, confused and rather put out, stalked past them to the stairs, however, before he could go further than the first step Aziraphale said, "Dearest! Please come back!"

"What are you laughing about?" he sulked.

"Nothing," Anathema snorted.

"Dearheart, we were just talking about the old days," Aziraphale said, clearly lying, "Please, come join us."

Crowley glowered at them. "What're you even talking about?"

There was a distinct pause before Aziraphale said, "Oh, the time Anathema brought a boy back after a night out, and directed him to my room, rather than hers."

"I didn't!" Anathema said, expression changing instantly, "He didn't understand which right I meant!"

"Well, I had a terrible shock; I was half asleep when he got into my bed, and as bold as brass, slid his hands down my pyjama trousers! I'm not sure which one of us was more mortified!"

"Oh, it was definitely you."

"Yes, I didn't see the funny side of it at the time," Aziraphale said thoughtfully. He wrung his hands, playing with the ring on his pinky finger. 

"You did me a favour. Turned out he wasn't very nice." Sensing Crowley's disbelief, Anathema stood up and said, "I'm gonna head off now as I've gotta do some last minute things, but I'm looking forward to tomorrow." Anathema drew Aziraphale into a tight hug, and whispered something into his ear before they exchanged kisses. 

Once she had left, Crowley asked, "What were you really talking about?"

"Never you mind!" Aziraphale said, "It's a surprise."

"What sort of surprise?"

"The sort of surprise I'm not going to ruin." Aziraphale furiously blushed. "Now, aside from waiting for wine, we have very little that needs to be done today, especially as Greta and Rose have volunteered to help me cook, and Anathema and Newt volunteered to wash up --"

Aziraphale was a little put out when Crowley placed a finger on his lips and hushed him. "If we've got nothing we need to do, then we should just...relax. Take the rest of the day off."

“...but…”

“Angel, I’m bloody exhausted. And we’ve got people coming over tomorrow,” Crowley grabbed Aziraphale’s right hand with both of his, “Please. Just time for us.”

He let his glasses slide down his nose, so Aziraphale could see his puppy-dog eyes. 

“Oh, alright,”Aziraphale smiled back at him.

* * *

A couple of hours later they were curled up on the bed, watching “Night of the Demon” on Crowley’s laptop, which was sitting on a folding chair they'd carried upstairs. 

Aziraphale lay on the bed, propped up with pillows and cushions from the sofa. Crowley burrowed his head on the soft bit of flesh just between Aziraphale's belly and chest, half-asleep in the bliss of it all. 

As the score swelled, and the credits began to roll, Aziraphale asked, "Did you make me watch that just for the séance?"

"No," mumbled Crowley, into his chest.

"But that's where that bit from that song comes from...Kate Bush?"

"Yeah, it does, but I wanted you to see it! You don't get modern films like that!"

"Well, certainly you don't get claymation demons any more. It was rather silly."

"Yeah, well, the director didn't want to show the demon. Anyway, when saw it as a kid the demon terrified me."

"I suppose those things look different as an adult," replied Aziraphale, circumspectly.

"So you didn't like it?" Crowley asked, trying to be casual about it.

"I didn't say that. I prefer the original story, but that was very fun."

They lay there for a few moments, before Crowley giggled to himself, and said, "Y'Know, I've never done this before."

"What?"

"Watched an M R James story on Christmas Eve with someone." Crowley slid his hand over Aziraphale's rounded stomach and pulled him closer. "I've done a lot of Christmas Eves with lots of different people. I've done a lot of people on Christmas Eves, to be honest.” He paused at his stupid joke, and looked up at Aziraphale’s face adoringly. ”But ghost stories on Christmas Eve? Always on my own."

Aziraphale placed his hand on top of Crowley's head, eyes twinkling with love. "Same. Although it was rather fun reading them under the covers, by torchlight."

"You're better than me. The last few years have been re-watching the ‘70s  _ Ghost Stories for Christmas _ instead of reading.” He nestled into the hand and he said, “I say re-watching, I've usually fallen asleep by the time  _ The Signalman _ comes on."

"Well, we can't stay up late tonight."

"That's fine. I'm happy to stay here." Crowley pulled Aziraphale further into his grip as he declared,"Might just sleep for a century."

"I'd rather you didn't,” Aziraphale replied teasingly, “What if I need to get up?"

"Nope. You never need to get up." Crowley smiled to himself happily, "You can just stay here forever."

Aziraphale chuckled, belly wobbling slightly under Crowley’s head, and slowly ran his fingers through his hair. "You are utterly ridiculous."

"Hmm? Yes." Crowley had his eyes squeezed shut as he breathed in the warm scent of his Angel. 

"Can I convince you to have some supper before you settle into slumber?"

Crowley let go of Aziraphale, and let his head roll off his body and back onto the bed with a soft  _ whump _ . "Probably ought to."

They ate a simple supper of gnocchi, fried up with vegetables just past their best and a pack of sausages Aziraphale had meant to save for Christmas day. 

After dinner and clean-up, they changed into nightwear (well, Aziraphale did; Crowley stripped to his boxers and complained that he was cold), and settled into bed together. Once Crowley was curled up next to Aziraphale’s body, and warmed himself up, he asked, ”Angel, would you...read to me?”

If Aziraphale were taken aback by this, he didn’t show it. “Of course, dear boy. Which one would you like to hear?”

Crowley rested his head on Aziraphale’s chest and murmured, “Whichever one you want, Angel.”

Aziraphale smiled, opened up his copy of  _ Ghost Stories of an Antiquary _ , and turned to ‘Lost Hearts ’.

With a little cough, he began to read: "It was, as far as I can ascertain, in September of the year 1811 that a post-chaise drew up before the door of Aswarby Hall, in the heart of Lincolnshire…" By the time he got to the part where Mrs Bunch was telling young Stephen about the girl and boy who had lived in Aswarby Hall before him, Crowley had fallen asleep, gripping Aziraphale fiercely.

Aziraphale closed the book, and trying to move as little as possible, placed it on the side table and turned off the lamp. 

"Goodnight, dear boy" he whispered. Then with a wiggle he lay down next to Crowley, who nuzzled into his neck sleepily. 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> If you fancy reading The Lost Hearts yourself, [click here](https://www.thin-ghost.org/items/show/143)
> 
> If you fancy having a look at the creepy as heck 70s Ghost stories for Christmas episodes, [Here is a link to their version of The Lost Hearts](https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=Q59CesR2Sno) which still freaks me out today. You can also find a playlist on that channel. 
> 
> A bit of disclosure, the M R James thing has become a bit of a tradition for myself and my husband; a friend of ours started making a day each year to watch the ghost stories for Christmas, amongst other things, and I've fallen in love with the tradition and want to bring it back. That, and it ties back nicely with Chapter 1. 
> 
> Right, hopefully back to a normal schedule soon. If you fancy saying hello, please do! I'm on Tumblr as [Bouncygin](https://bouncygin.tumblr.com/) and aside from writing fic, basically only re-post other people being cleverer than me.


	19. It's Only Christmas (Cheer Up You Moody Prick)

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Apologies for being late updating this chapter, I ended up making a mistake in my timing, and didn't leave enough time for editing over the weekend. 
> 
> Finally! The Christmas chapter, only a month late! _ manic laughter___
> 
> _ _Chapter title comes from Fightmilk's christmas LP. _ _
> 
> _ _ ** Content Warnings** _ _
> 
> _ _ **Mildly homophobic language, swearing, smoking, christmas in February****** _ _

"Wake up, my love. It's Christmas."

Crowley groaned, rolling stiffly. "Too early," he slurred grumpily, not wanting to leave the cocoon of their bed. 

"Dearest, have some coffee." A mug was thrust under his nose. 

Crowley sat up, took the mug, and gave Aziraphale a peck on the cheek. "What time is it?" he asked with a yawn.

"Nine thirty," Aziraphale replied, "Guests start arriving at eleven. Would you mind getting up, and getting yourself ready for the day?"

Crowley sipped at the coffee, as if this was a question rather than a demand. He wrapped one arm awkwardly around Aziraphale, and snuggled into the light blue cashmere jumper he was wearing. 

"Soft," he burbled, as Aziraphale wrapped his arms around him, "And warm."

Aziraphale plopped down on the bed next to Crowley, arms still around him. "That's not an answer, dearheart."

"Hmm? Do I have to?" Crowley purred, nuzzling into Aziraphale's jumper. 

"Yes, dearest. You're meeting Madam Tracy later. Although I suspect she would be perfectly fine with meeting you in your undergarments."

Crowley tried to work out the implication Aziraphale was making, but he felt his brain pulling down the shutters. "I'll get ready in a minute." He sunk into the hug, making it clear that a cuddle was required first. 

Aziraphale held Crowley as he sipped his coffee, and made a not-entirely-human noise of contentment. "Do we have time to do presents now?"

"Presents? Before dinner?" Aziraphale looked disturbed by the very concept.

"Yes. You don't need to sound so scandalised!"

"Dear, presents are done  _ after _ dinner."

"No they're..." Crowley sighed, "It's a posh person thing, isn't it?"

"What is?"

"Presents after dinner."

"Is it?"

"Yes. The only people who do presents after Christmas dinner are posh. Most people do them in the morning."

"Are you...never mind. Go get dressed." Aziraphale gave him another kiss on the cheek before standing up, "Greta and Rose will be here soon."

Aziraphale went to the kitchen to perform some eldritch ritual on the turkey.

Crowley finished his coffee and dragged himself to the shower, where he luxuriated in the hot water until he was awake. He didn’t realise how long he’d been in there until he came out in a cloud of steam, significantly more awake, and finished wriggling into his clothes. He heard knocking at the front door, and seeing that Aziraphale hadn’t heard it, make a dash to answer it.

He was met by Greta and Rose, shivering by the entrance, wrapped up in scarves and coats.

“Good morning Mr Crowley,” said Greta, monstrously cheerful for how early it was. 

Crowley stepped out of the way, still feeling dazed and confused. "Aziraphale's upstairs, in the kitchen,” he mumbled. 

"Right, job one, we need to get him out!" grinned Rose. 

“On it!” said Greta, practically leaping up the stairs. 

Before he knew what was going on, Rose had set up the trestle table and chairs, and had managed to throw a white tablecloth over it single-handedly.

Aziraphale and Greta seemed to appear from nowhere, and before Crowley knew what was going on he found himself with a glass of champagne in one hand, mince pie in the other, watching as the table was decorated and laid for guests, as well as an additional table laden with nibbles and bottles of every type of wine Crowley has ever heard of (and a few he hadn’t).

Just as the seemingly miraculous transformation was complete, there was a knock on the door. 

Crowley, still dizzy from all the activity, answered the door and was met with a loud squeal and a hug from Anathema.

"Come in," he said, a bit shocked. 

Anthathema let him go, followed by a sheepish-looking Newton, and practically threw herself at Aziraphale. He caught her in a tight hug, and they made noises like they hadn't seen each other in years. "Merry Christmas!" Anathema beamed.

"Merry Christmas my dear!" Aziraphale replied fondly.

"Are we the first--"

"Not quite," said Aziraphale, as Greta poured a glass of champagne and passed it to her.

"Oh, Greta," said Anathema, poker-faced, "I think we met at one of the Miracle Foundation functions."

"Yeah, you were Aziraphale's fake girlfriend!" Greta said, with a smile of recognition, "You did a great job!" Greta added two thumbs up and a wink.

"Thanks." Anathema's face flushed red.

"C'mon Goosey," said Rose, reading the room far better than her partner, "Let's go check on the food." 

"Okay petal." Greta passed a second glass to Newton, and was led upstairs.

Crowley stood behind Aziraphale, sliding his hands around his shoulders before giving him a kiss on the head. "Are you needed upstairs, or can you stay here for a bit?" he asked.

Aziraphale checked the time on the clock on the wall. "Oh, I can certainly host for a bit! Anathema, how was your journey?"

"Not bad," she replied, with a toss of her hair, "Newton drove us here."

"Oh, that's good. Mr Newton, do you want some orange juice instead?"

"No, one glass will be fine," Newton said.

"Oh goodness, there's no music! Crowley, can you go put some on?"

Crowley disentangled himself from Aziraphale, and started his fight with the Bluetooth speaker. After twenty minutes of starting, re-starting and cursing the infernal contraption, he finally connected it to his phone. He put on the Ventures’ Christmas album and returned to the group, where conversation had moved to Anathema and Aziraphale talking loudly about when they'd first moved to London.

"...and when we sneaked down into the stalls after the interval, that guy just gave us such a look," Anathema giggled.

"I can't believe you convinced me to sneak into the stalls at the Royal Opera House!"

"Well, the view was much better there than in the gods"

"Yes, it was, but I was so embarrassed! That man just stared and tutted at us for the whole second half."

"But it was fun, wasn't it?"

"Oh yes, very fun." Aziraphale grinned despite himself. "You're a terrible influence on me."

"What, more than me?" asked Crowley, trying to look cool as he snaked an arm around Aziraphale's shoulder. 

Aziraphale gently held his hand, before mischievously replying, "Well, technically, I would never have met you if Anathema hadn't introduced us."

"So, you're just second-hand influence," Anathema grinned.

Crowley gave her a quizzical look. "Whilst I do concede this to my poorly educated friend, I do advise that only one of us has tempted the defendant to partake in sins of the flesh with their devilish wiles."

" _ Crowley _ !" Aziraphale protested, going red.

"Pfffft, you're like the Diet Coke of temptations,” Anathema said dismissively. “Just one temptation isn't enough! And I've been doing it longer!"

"And, dearest, I believe I tempted you with my wiles as much as the other way around," Aziraphale said archly. 

Crowley felt himself flushing red, puffing as the words failed to come to him. Instead he grabbed Aziraphale around the waist and kissed him passionately, barely able to control himself with the joy of it. By the time they broke apart Crowley was only able to say, "...and don't you forget it! You tempted me, you bastard."

Anathema started laughing raucously. "Ha! Proved it! I just caused this to happen!"

"Did not!" Crowley shot back.

"Did too!" Anathema replied, sticking out her tongue.

Newton looked at his empty glass, clearly too sober for this conversation. 

Aziraphale, clinging to normality like a drowned man clings to flotsam, politely took the glass and said, "Top-up, dear boy?"

"J, j, j, just orange juice--"

"--I know, don't worry."

There was another knock at the door. 

Crowley opened it to an utterly miserable-looking Adam, who could barely meet his eye.

"Merry Christmas," said Crowley.

"Merry Christmas," Adam replied, voice saturated in despair.

"In the Christmas spirit?" asked Crowley.

"Something like that," Adam muttered, taking his coat off and hanging it up.

"Adam dear, champagne," Aziraphale said, thrusting a glass into his hand.

"Thank you, Mr Celeste."

"That's only my name when we're working. Aziraphale, please."

"Thank you...Aziraphale." Adam tried the name out, and decided he quite liked it. "Oh yes! I bought you a bottle," Adam passed Aziraphale a fairly anonymous-looking bottle of prosecco, "And a tin of Quality Street. Not Christmas without Quality Street!"

Aziraphale popped the gifts on the table and gave Adam a big hug. "Thank you, dear boy, I think if anyone is tempting me, it's Adam here!" Aziraphale patted his rounded belly fondly.

_ Think of Law of Property Act 1925 _ , Crowley thought to himself, feeling the back of his neck pricking and heat rising in his cheeks,  _ think of Trusts of Land and Appointment of Trustees Act 1996, for the love of all that is unholy, think of Countryside and Rights of Way Act 2000... _

Aziraphale clearly could see his expression and threw him a brief, coquettish, glance. 

Crowley thought he might die of frustration.  _ Bastard _ . "I would have thought you would have had something posher, Adam," said Crowley, looking for any distraction. 

"No, Dad--Arthur, would insist on Quality Street. Mum would tut sometimes, but he used to insist on it, even though I'd eat them instead of breakfast." Adam's mood seemed to lift momentarily, before crashing again. 

"What are they?" asked Anathema.

"You never had Quality Street?" asked Newt, scandalised.

"No, what are they?"

"Mr Celeste! How have you never given Anathema Quality Street?" demanded Newt.

"Mr Pulsifer! Quality Street are not the be-all or end-all of a traditional Christmas!" Aziraphale insisted.

"A Roses household?" Newton asked, as if the world had been flipped upside down and he was looking to hold on to any level of sanity.

"No! We'd probably have some chocolate in the stockings, but no more chocolate until the tea and coffee after lunch."

Newton looked at Aziraphale as if he'd proclaimed himself a celestial being. "But--"

Crowley, who'd finished and helped himself to another drink during this exchange, put his arms around Newton and Aziraphale, and with all the seriousness he could muster, said, "Gentlemen!" He paused for effect before continuing, "We are avoiding a very serious question here; presents in the morning or after lunch?"

"After lunch," Aziraphale said.

A cry of outrage came from those assembled. 

"After lunch!" exclaimed Adam, clutching imaginary pearls around his neck.

"That's madness!" said Newton. "What did you even  _ do _ in the morning?"

"We would have breakfast, then go to church! Presents before lunch is vulgar."

There was another cry of indignation. 

"No presents before lunch! No Quality Street! I can’t believe this..." Adam tutted. 

Aziraphale was looking for an exit when he spied the clock on the wall. “Now, whilst I am very interested in this discourse, I must go and check on the food…” He removed Crowley’s arm, and walked off quickly.

As Aziraphale disappeared, Adam opened up the tin, and explained all the flavours to Anathema. Crowley watched as Newton and Adam sampled them one by one, like it was a fine wine tasting. Before long they were laughing at their ludicrousness. 

As soon as Crowley thought he could get away whilst still being vaguely polite, he made his excuses, grabbed one of the fudge ones from the tin, and hurried upstairs to check on Aziraphale. 

Upstairs, in the kitchenette, there was a low hum of activity, punctuated with giggles and consumption of wine. 

Greta was wandering about like a new-born deer, holding her wine glass like a goblet in one hand, gesticulating sloppily and gripping onto Aziraphale's arm for balance with the other. Her hand slipped, and she nearly knocked over a pan of sprouts.

Aziraphale managed to grab her before she caused any damage, and chided, "Be careful, my dear, those sprouts could have been turned over!"

"Noooo..." Greta giggled.

"Come here!" Rose chided gently, opening her arms. Greta stumbled over to Rose, and she put her arms around her. "You, Goosey, are a menace!"

"Nooo! I'm not!" Greta giggled into Rose's shoulder. 

Rose pulled her in close, Greta losing her footing for a moment. "Yes you are! You have the chaotic energy of a small goose!"

"Honk," replied Greta.

"Hey." Crowley came out of the shadows, and did a little wave, "Do you need any help up here?"

Aziraphale gave him a very relieved smile. "Dearest, come here..."

Crowley stepped over, and found Aziraphale's perfect plump arm circled around his waist, pulling him into his soft body. The other hand gently touched his chin, and pulled him into a kiss. Crowley could have melted. Love and lust rushed through him, renewing the energy he didn't even know he was lacking.

Crowley couldn't resist resting a hand on Aziraphale's soft hips. "Is that all you wanted?" he asked.

"No." Aziraphale gave him another kiss. Reaching up to his ear he whispered, "But we have guests." Crowley felt hairs rise on the back of his neck. 

"This is the gayest kitchen!" Greta announced happily.

Aziraphale looked a little uncomfortable, and loosened his grip on Crowley. With a cough he said, "Err, yes...I suppose it is..." He grabbed his pocket-watch from the side and said, "not long 'til lunch. Can you make sure everyone has a top-up, and we'll start bringing things down."

"Can do, but you do you need anything up here? Like a drink?"

"Nope," Rose added, "Had plenty of booze here." She patted Greta on the back gently.

"Noooo...am I too drunk to help?" Greta asked, balefully.

"Maybe a little bit?" Rose replied.

"Bah. I am a bad goose," Greta said in a small voice. "Honk."

"No you're not." Rose stroked Greta's hair. "Chaotic, definitely. But not bad."

"Erm, do you want me to get Anathema to help bring stuff down?" asked Crowley.

"Might be for the best," replied Aziraphale. Then, in another whisper, "Can you pop Greta next to Mr Pulsifer? Might be best if she just has juice with lunch."

"Is she always like this?" Crowley whispered back.

"Yeah," Aziraphale replied with a smile. 

Crowley gave Aziraphale a forehead kiss, and a quick squeeze before saying to Greta, "C'mon, probably best to get you downstairs while Rose and Angel finish getting things ready."

Rose let her go, and Greta staggered, before gripping Crowley's arm. As he led her down the stairs she said, "You're very tall."

"I am," he replied, not sure what to make of this.

"Very tall," she repeated. "How are you so tall?"

He managed to get Greta safely down the stairs, and seated with a glass of orange juice, before he noticed that the music had changed.

"Who put this tinkly nonsense on?" he demanded.

"Me," said Adam.

"What is this…" Crowley demanded.

"Sufjan Stevens," Adam replied, "Best Christmas album ever!"

"It's not!"

"It's better than that surf rock bullshit you put on," Anathema said.

Crowley decided that punching his Chambers Manager, and boyfriend's best friend, on Christmas Day was probably not worth it. "Okay. Fine. We'll listen to this acoustic guitar man," Crowley said, sounding like a sulky teenager. "Also, can you pop up and help Angel with food?"

Anathema gave Greta a little side-eye, and with a nod, rushed up the stairs. 

"Everyone else, please top yourself up and sit down--"

Crowley was interrupted by knocking on the door. He strode over, and to his abject horror saw Ligur standing there with a rather dejected-looking Pepper.

"Room for two little ones?" Ligur asked.

"What on Earth are you doing here?" Asked Crowley.

"I was invited?" Ligur said, puckishly.

"I know you were invited!"

"Fancied a bit of a change," he said. "I could do without hearing from my aunties about how my cousin Gordon got promoted and has three kids." He brandished a bottle of Clos Marey-Monge Monopole 2016 like it was a winning lottery ticket. "I brought wine."

"I made vegan Yule log," Pepper added, gesturing with the plastic Tupperware in her arms. 

"Don't you have a family to go home to?" asked Crowley, more harshly than he meant.

"I do. But Adam doesn't," she replied. "It doesn't feel okay to go back to Tadfield without him." She peered around the door, "Erm, do you think food will be a problem?"

Crowley looked behind him as plate after plate loaded with food was laid on the table. "No. Food will not be a problem,” he said deliberately. “There is so much food. We need all the help we can get with food." He spied a huge bowl of Brussels sprouts. "I hope you like vegetables."

"Vegan. It kinda comes with the description," Pepper deadpanned. 

"Good." Crowley stood away from the door and shouted, "We have a couple of late-comers!"

"Is it Madam Tra--" on seeing who it was Aziraphale changed his tone. "Ah, Ligur, what a lovely surprise! And Pepper. Crowley, please take their coats."

Ligur grinned as he passed his coat. "Thank you, Crowley," he said, eyes full of mischief. Crowley gave Ligur a look like he was trying to set fire to him with his mind. Pepper, sensibly hung her own coat.

Aziraphale made suitable approving noises and coos of thanks as he was passed the bottle and the Yule log, which were placed on the table with snacks and wine. Crowley could sense that he was uncomfortable, though clearly hiding disappointment with a mask of practised charm and gratitude. He wasn't sure if he should say something, but clearly these were not the two latecomers he wanted.

Adam's face lit up. "Pepper! What're you doing here? I thought you'd gone back to Tadfield?"

"I wasn't going back to Tadfield without you, you doofus," she replied, "Even if it's because you're in a sulk."

"I'm not in a sulk," he said, moodily.

"I'm not going to argue with you," Pepper replied, setting her jaw in an irritated expression as she took a place next to him. 

Aziraphale smiled a smile that didn't reach his eyes. "Rose, is everything downstairs now?"

"Everything except the puddings," she replied.

"Good, good," he said, absentmindedly.

"Rose, you know what's vegan and not? Can you talk to Pepper?" Crowley asked. "Angel, a quick word behind the bookshelves?"

There was a chorus of whoops from those assembled.

"Not like that!" He grabbed Aziraphale by the arm and took him behind a bookshelf.

"Well, I'd like it if it was like that!" Aziraphale whispered. Crowley rolled his eyes, and pretending it was a chore, gave him a kiss. Aziraphale practically glowed. "Done?" he asked.

"No!" Crowley hissed back, "I...you seem a bit on edge. Just wanted to make sure you're okay."

Aziraphale looked away, concerned. "It's nothing."

"It's not," Crowley said softly. "Whatever it is, it's upsetting you. Is it the extra guests? I'll go chuck both of them out..."

"No, it's not that." Aziraphale wrung his hands nervously. 

"...but seriously, I will throw them out, or look for a takeaway place open today and ask them to come back..."

"Crowley, stop!" Aziraphale wrung his hands again, collecting his thoughts and with a sigh said, "I've... I've not heard from Madam Tracy. I've messaged her a few times, but...nothing."

Crowley could see the heartbreak cracking through that mask. And there was nothing he could do. There was no going out for dinner, or rushing across the south-east, or anything else he could do to help. He couldn't help but feel himself taking against her and her, now obviously terrible, man. He debated if it was worth grabbing Aziraphale's phone and giving her a piece of his mind. After a moment he decided the best thing he could do was put his arms around Aziraphale and say, "I'm sorry she's not here."

"It’s not your fault," Aziraphale replied.

"No, but you've put so much effort into this for her. She should at least tell you she can't make it."

"She's probably just been delayed or somet--"

"--I don't care if she had to travel here on a bloody moped though a military zone, she should have told you she couldn't make it." Crowley fought to keep his voice under control.

"Please... don't be angry."

"I'm not... I'm not angry. I'm just..." Crowley swallowed, and said, "You deserve better. You deserve to be happy."

Aziraphale looked puzzled at the notion. 

"Don't give me that look!" Crowley groaned, "I can't take--"

Aziraphale interrupted him with a kiss, and a very tight hug. "You are ridiculous, you know that?"

"Yeah, but I mean it. I'll fight an old lady for you." Crowley couldn't help grinning at the thought. "Can't promise that I'll win."

"Is it terrible that I love you for that?"

"I hope not. I like being loved by you. Makes loving you a lot easier too, you loving me back." 

Aziraphale couldn't help but smile at that. "Good thing that the feeling is mutual. Who would put up with us otherwise?"

"Oh, shut up," said Crowley dismissively, and kissed him on the cheek. 

They came from behind the bookshelves to see everyone serving themselves food, Rose making sure that Pepper got a serving of everything that didn't have animal products in it, whether she wanted it or not. 

"Please start, everyone!" Aziraphale said, just in case. 

* * *

Lunch was an incredibly pleasant affair. Surprisingly pleasant. Lots of good food, good and plentiful wine, and everyone making an effort to get along. Crowley even ate a small plate of food with only a few prompts from Aziraphale. Compliments were passed to those who had cooked (turned out Rose, aside from being able to wrangle Greta, was incredibly good at making Yorkshire puddings) and conversation stayed away from work (mostly). 

Ligur told everyone a few tales about Crowley at Cambridge, making him turn as red as his hair as he tried to excuse or explain the actions of his younger self. Anathema, whose naughty side was in full force, told stories of the various things she'd tried to break Aziraphale out of his shell at Oxford, and when they'd moved to London.

Greta, once a bit more sober, demanded the story of how Crowley and Aziraphale met and how they started dating. Despite being as red as a beetroot, Aziraphale told most of the story, with Crowley adding bits he'd missed or didn't know about. When it came to talking about the rush to the airport, Anathema took over the story, demanding Newton help with anything she couldn't remember the words for. As the story unfolded, and Aziraphale was more relaxed and more drunk, he would look at Crowley very fondly as they talked, and pat his thigh under the table. Occasionally Crowley would respond by resting his head on Aziraphale's soft, rounded shoulder, or kissing him chastely on the side of the head. By the time they finished the story in the present day, the ladies at the table were utterly gooey at their clear affection for each other, whilst the men were a little bemused but happy for them. 

There was a brief break between lunch and dessert, where Aziraphale attempted to wrangle himself and a few others into clearing the table and getting everything else ready, and Crowley popped out for a smoke with Ligur. 

Both of them enjoyed the chill of the winter air after having sat for a couple of hours in a warm room. After a few moments, Ligur said, "It's been nice. I'm glad I came."

Crowley, pulling out his lighter and lighting his cigarette, said, "Did you have to tell everyone about me capsizing that punt? I sounded like a right arsehole."

"You are a right arsehole," Ligur joked back. "Anyway, better I tell them about that than about your Jarvis Cocker phase."

"How very dare you! I looked amazing in flares!"

"You had a bloody mullet! No wonder viscount what’s-his-name's son started singing  _ Common People  _ at you during that moot ** _<a href="#Reference1">[1]</a>_ ** ."

"It wasn't a mullet. My mop top had grown out a bit, and I couldn't afford to get it cut again. And we won it." Crowley smiled to himself. "Lucky for you that Luci saw you that day. Guaranteed yourself a pupillage at Brimstone." They were quiet for a moment. Crowley took a drag on his cigarette, and watched the smoke billow out and slowly dissipate around him. Once the last of the smoke had curled away, he allowed himself a little chuckle. "I'm glad you came as well."

Ligur seemed surprised by this. "What?"

"I am. For once you're the tragic single." Ligur lightly punched him on the arm and Crowley cackled. "Naw, I am. Really. It's good to see you, mate."

"You would have seen me sooner if you hadn't basically moved in with your boyfriend, and decided to play at being the only queer in Chambers."

"I am the..." Crowley remembered Adam. "Oh. Yeah."

"I mean, you've gone full lesbian here. How often do you even go back to your flat?"

Crowley thought about it for a moment before saying, "Point." Then, looking up at the sky, he said, "It's funny. I feel like I've always known him." Crowley threw his cigarette butt on the ground and thrust his hands into his pockets. " And as stupid as it sounds, I feel like I've found my other half."

"Your better half." 

"Obviously," Crowley joked back. "Just... All the other people I've shagged didn't feel as right as this."

"Well, you've never been one for taking things slowly," Ligur said resignedly.

"No." Crowley would have suggested going back in, if Adam hadn't stepped outside, and taken a pack of cigarettes from his pocket.

"You're buying your own now?" said Crowley.

"Bad sign," Ligur tutted, taking another drag on his vape for emphasis.

"It's a dirty habit. Shouldn't do it."

Adam gave both of them a withering look as he lit his cigarette. 

Ligur shifted position again. "You talked to Pepper yet?"

"About what?" asked Adam.

"About you being sorry that you shat on her moment."

Adam took a puff, and looked away. "Not yet. Not seen her much. Didn't know she'd be here today."

Ligur placed a hand on Adam's shoulder. "Now, I wouldn't normally get myself into pupils’ drama--"

Crowley snorted.

"--but she's been really upset. And she's not been doing late hours in the library just for my researches."

"I thought she was doing research for Hastur as well?" Adam said.

"Not the point. She's been cut up about it."

"Then why didn't she talk to me about it, Instead of just avoiding me?"

"Because you've been a grumpy little shit since the party," Crowley said.

"So why is she even here?" Adam sulked.

"She misses you," Ligur said. 

Adam took a few moments to understand. He took a drag on his cigarette before saying quietly, "I've been a dickhead, haven't I?"

"Yeah, you have," said Ligur, archy, "And as long as I'm her pupil master, I keep my eye out for her."

"I'm pretty sure Pepper would kill you if she heard you say that."

"You're all young adults starting out in a stressful profession after years and years in school; of course you need someone to look out for you. Not all of us get good pupil masters, but if you have good friends, you should try and keep them." Ligur squeezed Adam's shoulder. 

"C'mon. Finish it, and head inside," muttered Crowley, "It's cold out."

Adam took one last drag of the cigarette, and they headed back together.

Crowley was overwhelmed by the sheer number of desserts on the table. There were two Christmas cakes, one square, one round, brought by Rose and Anathema respectively; a trifle; a pavlova filled with red cherries and cream, with sugar holly leaves on top; the vegan Yule log; and a fat, round, Christmas pudding, sitting just in front of Aziraphale. This was not to mention the cream, ice cream and custard dotted around the table. 

Crowley, overwhelmed and happy, trotted over to Aziraphale, and hugged him from behind. "Hello you," he whispered.

"You're very cold," Aziraphale tutted.

"Sorry, Angel."

"I didn't say stop," Aziraphale said, relaxing into the hug, "Anyway, now you're all in, I can light the pudding."

With a wiggle and a kiss, Aziraphale slipped his grasp, and grabbed a bottle of brandy from the side table. Greta, significantly more sober now, tapped her spoon against her glass of orange juice, before shouting, "It's time!"

A gentle whooping erupted from the table. Aziraphale proceeded to dump half the bottle on the pudding, and pulled a box of matches from his pocket. He unceremoniously lit the pudding, and it burned very briefly, before it fizzled out in embarrassment.  ** _<a href="#Reference2">[2]</a>_ **

There was another, slightly drunk, cheer from the table, and the assembled people helped themselves to what they wanted. 

Crowley sat down next to Aziraphale, and couldn't resist re-filling his wine glass, silly grin on his face. 

The rest of the meal moved in a haze of goodwill, wine and sugar. Crackers were pulled around the table, paper hats donned and terrible jokes read out, receiving groans and giggles. 

At some point Greta insisted on taking photos of those assembled. She ended up having to take a few to get everyone in, and promised to send copies of it to Aziraphale afterwards. 

The puddings were left out, and guests began to roam a little, exchanging seats and chatting animatedly. As much as Crowley tried to stay sat with Aziraphale, he ended up being distracted by Adam and Pepper, who told him that they needed to hear his opinion on the best Britpop band.  _ Seeing as he was there at the time _ , Adam added.

Crowley, in a drunken full force defence of the Auteurs, against Newton's significantly more sober argument for Blur, didn't even notice that Ligur and Aziraphale had gone upstairs to the flat. He didn't notice for a full half hour. Once he did, he made his excuses, and headed upstairs to the flat to find him.

As he walked up the stairs, he heard Ligur saying, "...This sort of thing is more Dagon's area, y'know, but once everything is sorted out, I can't see why you wouldn't. To be honest, it's a pretty good idea."

"It's less whether it's a good idea, but if it's even remotely sensible to ask," Aziraphale said.

"It's very sensible to ask. I mean, it's a quick and easy way to secure things, on your end."

"Right, yes. Do you think Crowley would understand that?"

Ligur snorted, "He ought to. Oh, is this an original pressing of Martha and the Vandellas?"

"Oh yes. It was my mother's."

"Oh wow! I haven't seen one since my granny passed." Ligur sounded genuinely impressed. "Are you sure I can't buy this off you?"

"I'm afraid not."

"Well, I don't blame you...is that Motown Chartbusters 1 through to 12? This one still has a Woolworths **_<a href="#Reference3">[3]</a>_** sticker on it!"

"Number 7 is a little scratched. I've been meaning to fix it for a while..."

Crowley decided this was the right moment to come in. "What're you doing up here?" he asked.

Aziraphale looked oddly guilty. Ligur turned to face Crowley and said, "Anathema told me that Aziraphale had an amazing collection of Motown and girl group records, and she wasn't lying." He waved his hand at the shelves and said, "How come you're not playing these now? He's even got the Phil Spector Christmas album!"

"Phil Spector abused his wife and straight up shot a woman ** _<a href="#Reference4">[4]</a>_ ** ," Crowley replied humourlessly.

"Well, so did Joe Meek ** _<a href="#Reference5">[5 ]</a>_ ** , and you practically worship him."

Crowley did not have a comeback for that. "You done here?"

Ligur shrugged. "Sure. I'll go back to the party. Good to talk properly, Aziraphale."

"I'm glad to have spoken as well, Ligur," Aziraphale said, a smile briefly flitting across his face. 

Once Ligur had left, Crowley took Aziraphale's hand and said, "What were you two talking about?"

"Records," Aziraphale answered.

Crowley knew he wasn't going to get an answer now. "How're you doing?"

"I'm good. I'm having a lot of fun, actually. I've barely needed to host." Aziraphale let the tension in his shoulders go as their fingers interlaced.

"I'm having a good time as well," Crowley admitted, watching their hands curiously. "I didn't think I would, but...yeah." He trailed off, squeezing their hands. Then, voice quiet, he said, "I love you."

"I love you too," Aziraphale whispered back. They exchanged gentle, comforting kisses, giggling at their softness.

"We should probably head back." Crowley said, resting his forehead on Aziraphale's.

"We probably should," Aziraphale replied with a sigh.

They headed back to the party, holding each other's hands. Aziraphale glided amongst the guests, Crowley in tow, neither of them inclined to let the other go. 

Time passed like a river, carrying along everyone along into the early evening, the tide washing up pleasantly around 7. People started to say their goodbyes, and were passed ancient plastic takeaway tubs full of food to take home for dinner (if they could eat again that day.)

Anathema and Newton, true to their promise, helped with cleaning up. It took much less time than Crowley thought it would, although part of this was the executive decision to leave the lion's share of the washing-up until tomorrow. 

Anathema and Aziraphale's customary hug goodbye took longer than usual. Crowley noticed her whispering something into his ear, which made him smile and squeeze her harder. Once Newton and Anathema left, Crowley felt his entire body relax, almost falling over.

"How on earth do you do it, Angel?" he asked.

"Practice, mainly," Aziraphale replied.

"It's quite tiring."

"It very much is, dear." Aziraphale put his arms around Crowley. "Do you want me to carry you upstairs, my love?"

"No, I'll be fine. A cup of cocoa and bed sounds great, though." 

Back in the flat, Crowley wrapped the tartan throw on the sofa around himself, as Aziraphale gently pottered around the kitchenette, lazily cleaning a few glasses as the kettle boiled. 

Aziraphale brought over the mugs of steaming hot cocoa, passing one to Crowley still wrapped in his cocoon. He sat down heavily, and Crowley slithered over, resting his head on his belly. 

"Today's been very good," Crowley said, taking a sip of his drink.

"It has, rather," Aziraphale ruffled Crowley's hair, making him chuckle.

"A bit exhausting, but good," Crowley repeated. Then, sitting up like he'd forgotten something important he said, "Presents!"

"What?"

"Presents! I still haven't given you your presents!" He put the cocoa down on the table, and half-leaping, retrieved two wrapped packages from his ancient duffle bag. 

He returned to the sofa, holding them out like a cat bringing a mouse back to its owner. "Presents!" he announced again, grinning maniacally.

"Oh, dearest... I'll go get mine as well."

Aziraphale returned with a neatly wrapped package of his own. 

Crowley passed his first gift to Aziraphale hurriedly, excited for him to open it. 

Aziraphale peeled back the paper carefully, revealing a brown paper box, about the size of both his fists placed together. After a false start, he opened the box to find a white mug inside.

He pulled it out carefully, and laughed. "It has wings!"

"Angel wings!" Crowley said, eyes wide open in excitement. "I saw it the other day, and I thought of you!"

Aziraphale grinned, his eyes creasing in joy. "Oh, thank you, Dearest!" He lent over and hugged him.

"It's okay! It's just a mug!" Crowley said, a little overwhelmed at the response. His face and neck suddenly felt too hot. "Erm, if you liked that one, you'll probably love this one..."

Crowley shoved the package at Aziraphale, anxiety pricking at his shoulders. Aziraphale, his fingers careful and clever, removed the paper with barely a rip. In his lap sat a book, nesting in the brightly coloured paper. "Oh, Crowley, you shouldn't have..." He picked up the book carefully, and delicately ran his fingers along the gold embossed pattern on the front.

"Do you remember the first time we met? When you were telling me about Machen, and Beardsley?"

"This must have cost you a lot of money..." said Aziraphale, his perfectly manicured hand brushing against the slightly faded fabric.

"What else am I going to spend money on?" Crowley murmured.

"Oh no, but my present will look awful next to yours! And you deserve better!" Aziraphale looked ashamed as he gently stroked the book. 

"I don't care about that." Crowley grabbed Aziraphale's hand, holding them still and making him look him in the eye. "I've got you. That's the best present I could ask for." He leaned over and kissed Aziraphale. "I love you."

Aziraphale fiddled with the ring on his pinkie finger. "That may be so, but..." he passed the gift, holding it out in both hands, "Once you open it, let me explain."

Crowley took the soft package, and ripped at the paper. It was a tartan scarf. It had obviously been used, but was in decent condition, and looked like it had been expensive when bought new. It felt soft in his hands.

"The tartan... it's my family tartan. On my mother's side. I know it's old, but I know you get cold in this weather and it'll keep you warm and..." words suddenly failed him. He looked down at the book in his lap, biting his lips.

Crowley placed the scarf around his neck, like an exotic dancer draping themselves with a snake. "Thank you," he whispered.

"You like it?" Aziraphale asked tentatively.

"Yes," Crowley replied, the smallest of smiles on his lips.

Aziraphale rearranged the scarf around Crowley’s neck, tying it deliberately. "You see, you're only meant to give this tartan to family..." Suddenly, his pocket started to vibrate, followed by a flurry of pings, alarms and pre-set bleeps. "What on earth..." He looked annoyed as he brought his phone out of his pocket, but his expression changed as he saw the name of the caller. "Oh goodness! She's finally... Crowley..." 

Crowley kissed him on the cheek as he answered the phone. "Hello, Madam Tracy... you're here?...Just outside?... I'll come straight down!"

"Oh goodness!" Aziraphale started flapping, overwhelmed by the sense of relief and anxiety colliding together in his mind, "Crowley, she's here... she's finally..."

"Go answer the door," Crowley said, taking him by the hands again. 

Aziraphale rushed down the stairs.

Crowley had no idea what to expect, except that tonight was going to be a late night. 

  
  
  
  
  


**FOOTNOTES**

_ <p id="section1">[1]  _ _ a mock court at which law students argue imaginary cases for practice. Competitive ones also exist, which is the one Ligur and Crowley were competing at. They can also be useful networking events as they're often run or sponsored by well known chambers.  _

_ <p id="section1">[2] I had literally no idea before writing this chapter that the brandy was supposed to be heated before pouring it over the pudding. I feel rather silly, but I’m also not sending him up and down the stairs just to do the pudding, which no one ever eats, properly.</p> _

_ <p id="section1">[3] Woolworths was a high-street store that sold a lot of different goods until it collapsed under its own weight in 2008. In the ‘50s and ‘60s, Woolworth’s were one of the biggest sellers of music in the UK, even more so than proper dedicated music shops.</p> _

_ <p id="section1">[4]  _ _ Phil Spector is an American record producer, musician, and songwriter who developed the ‘Wall of Sound’ production style. And straight up shot a woman in 2003 _ _ .</p> _

_ <p id="section1">[5] Joe Meek is a British music producer who created new recording techniques and brought a unique sound to the table. His ‘Telstar’ was the first British record to top the US charts. He also suffered from severe mental health problems, which caused him to treat his music acts and partners abusively, and kill his landlady before killing himself. If you want to know more, the biopic, also Telstar, is a great place to start:  _ [ _ https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=od94Gcg9McI&t=3464s _ ](https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=od94Gcg9McI&t=3464s) _ .</p> _

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Thank you for reading! Please throw a comment to your humble fic writer if you can. If not, we cool. 
> 
> Also, hello to anyone who came her through the recommendation on Aziraphale's Library! I hope you're enjoying yourself. Pull up an old sofa, blanket, and something warm to drink. 
> 
> I hang about on Tumbrl as Bouncygin, please come say hi.


	20. 'Cause Christmas ain't the time for breaking each other's heart

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Title taken from The Ramones - Merry Christmas (I Don't Want To Fight Tonight). 
> 
> **Content Warnings:**
> 
> **Long overdue coming out scene. Christmas in February ******

Crowley hadn't really known what to expect of Madame Tracy. Aziraphale's descriptions of her had been so vague, Crowley had created a mental image of her as the platonic ideal of a great aunt: some sort of severe, solidly built woman with the difficult charm of an expensively educated tank and strong opinions on chair covers. 

Madame Tracy was not that. She was a lithe, sprightly woman in her late 60s, who clearly thought of herself as something of a bohemian. Crowley couldn't quite tell if she was attractive, but between her bright red hair and her make-up that straddled the line between flattering and fun, he ended up deciding that Madame Tracy was definitely glamorous.

She hadn't even taken off her tweed cape before she squeezed Aziraphale in a tight embrace. "I've missed you, sunshine boy." 

"I've missed you too, Madame," he replied, the trace of a smile spreading across his face. 

Madame Tracy took a step back, and took him in. "I swear, I forget how much you look like your mother!" she said fondly, holding him by his arms. Aziraphale smiled back at her, beaming with pride. 

Madame Tracy, noticing Crowley, gave him a once-over, and said, "And you must be the famous Mr Crowley!" Then, turning to Aziraphale, "Oooooh, he's a looker, isn't he?"

Aziraphale turned an interesting shade of scarlet. "Yes he is, Madame Tracy," he said quietly.

"I'll say this much; your family have a type." Madame Tracy winked at Crowley theatrically. Crowley felt his brain shut down at the implication. He suspected it would continue to shut down periodically for the rest of the evening. 

Bemused, he held out his hand to shake. Madame Tracy laughed, said, "No need to be formal!" and held her arms out for a hug. Crowley, feeling very self-conscious suddenly, gingerly returned it. 

"Is the Sergeant not joining us?" asked Aziraphale as he hung up her cape.

"Oh, no, love." Madame Tracy shook her head sadly. "He managed to twist his ankle in Banffy Castle, so I had to drop him off in my London flat before coming here, and my phone died on the way back. I'm so sorry, sunshine."

"No matter," he smiled, "You're here and I'm very glad to see you. Can I get you a drink?" Aziraphale paused, then continued, "We have some very nice reds in, or a white if you prefer, some rather marvellous fizz, or maybe a gin and tonic--"

"--You're not to stand on ceremony," she said, putting her hand on his shoulder, "I just wanted to have a sit down and a catch-up." She looked up at Crowley again and said, "Oh, shall we go up to the flat? It's cosy up there."

Once everyone was sat down in the flat's living room, Madame Tracy convinced Aziraphale to pour them some red wine from one of the open bottles rather than make her decide exactly what she wanted from the extensive selection. 

Crowley quickly poured a shot of whiskey in his cocoa when no one was looking, and settled in next to Aziraphale. He suspected that this was going to be a long night.

"I'm so sorry I'm late, love," Madame Tracy repeated, "We had a bit of trouble in Bontida. They didn't take kindly to our investigations so we ended up having to take a scenic route out, and the poor Sergeant ended up damaging himself..."

"You're more than forgiven, my dear lady, I'm just very glad to see you," Aziraphale cooed. "No, I must ask, did you manage to pick up anything while you were there?"

Madame Tracy smiled triumphantly. "A first edition of Albert Wass' Farkasverem! Very nice condition. So it was hardly a waste, but it looks like all the original drafts of his poetry were lost in the fire at the castle."

"Oh, that's utter heresy!" Aziraphale looked genuinely angry for a moment. 

"And the ghosts at the castle were very rude to Mr Shadwell and me," she sniffed angrily. "Hon-nest-ley! They might be dead, but what would their mothers think?"

"Indeed." Aziraphale continued to nod along. He looked at his cocoa, now covered in a thin skin and rather tepid. After an uncomfortable pause he asked, "My mother...has she been in touch?"

"No, my dear," Madame Tracy said softy, "I'm afraid that I can't contact my own loved ones. I think such things would be too intense for any one body to take."

"Would probably explode," Aziraphale said, sadness leaking through his chuckle.

"Exactly, my dear." Madame Tracy looked over at Crowley before saying, "Now, I understand that you're a lawyer, Mr Crowley?"

"Err, yes." Crowley sipped at his spiked cocoa, deciding now was not the time to lecture her on the split profession.

"And you're helping our sunshine boy with his siblings?" she said, very seriously.

"Yeah. Sort of." 

She relaxed a little. "Oh, thank goodness. It's been horrible seeing him bullied by them for so long!"

"Madame Tracy, it's hardly been bullying--" Aziraphale tried to interject.

"--darling, they threw you out of your flat!" she said, clearly still scandalised, "With no notice, I might add. And I've seen the way they talk to you; especially Gabriel--"

"--they can be a little... short with me, but brothers can be sometimes. And yes, I'm starting to think that their basis for dissolving the Foundation was, well, unfounded." Aziraphale's hand moved unconsciously to Crowley's.

"Well, that's a good start," she tutted, "I hate seeing you being treated like your mother was. Now, Mr Crowley, Aziraphale has told me absolutely nothing about how you met! I want to know everything!"

"Tracy, I did tell you about him!" Aziraphale protested.

"Sunshine, you didn't!" she replied, "One day you're writing me emails about the bookshop, next day you're telling me about a devilish Mr Crowley who keeps you company during the day!"

" _ Devilish Mr Crowley _ !" Crowley laughed.

Aziraphale, rather embarrassed, exclaimed, "You are devilish!"

"...it was very obvious that you found him rather attractive." Madame Tracy took another sip of wine, a naughty look in her eye.

Aziraphale looked scandalised, opening and closing his mouth like a fish. "I said no such thing!" 

"Aziraphale, you didn't have to. We knew that you were gay since you were five, it was just a matter of you working it out for yourself."

"Madame!" Aziraphale crossed his arms in embarrassment. 

"Also, no one is a devilish  _ anyone _ unless you think they're attractive!" she added, with a knowing look in her eye.

Aziraphale refused to meet her gaze. Crowley couldn't help but laugh at his disgruntled expression, and gave him a kiss on the temple. "You're very cute when you're annoyed."

Aziraphale glowered, and unfolding his arms said, "Ugh, both of you are impossible."

Crowley and Madame Tracy looked at each other and giggled. 

"Oh, that's why you like us!" Crowley said, "You like having someone naughty around!"

Aziraphale tried very hard not to smile. "I obviously like thwarting your evil wiles."

"Not too hard, I hope," Crowley said, placing another kiss on his cheek, "Otherwise I'm out on the street."

Aziraphale sighed, and placed a hand on Crowley's knee. He squeezed it gently, and turned to Madame Tracy. "He's always like this, I'm afraid.”

"Well, that's no bad thing," Madame Tracy said, "He's very charming."

"See, Aziraphale, I'm  _ charming _ ," Crowley teased.

"Dearest, I already knew that," Aziraphale returned the kiss on the cheek, "As for how we met, well..."

They were all surprised to hear the doorbell ring. 

"I'm sure we didn't invite any more guests... I'll go have a look." He hefted himself off the couch, and said, "Dearest, please feel free to start the tale without me."

Aziraphale went down the stairs. There was a pause of a few seconds before Madame Tracy shifted a little closer to Crowley and said, "I think I like you."

Crowley raised an eyebrow. "Oh?"

"Aziraphale seems so much happier. I can see it. When he's happy he does these little wiggles, almost like he's vibrating, and he does them a lot around you," She took another sip of wine, "And when you look at him, I can see how much you love him."

"Oh?" Crowley suddenly felt very self-conscious. 

"Yes. It's very obvious." She smiled.

He nodded in acknowledgment, and felt his brain shut down again. "So, how do you know his family, then..."

"I became very close friends with his mother when I was in Japan--"

They were interrupted by raised voices downstairs. 

Before he knew what he was doing, he had jumped out of his seat and was running down the stairs to the shop, skipping every third step in his haste. 

He rushed to the door, blood pumping in his ears, to find Aziraphale gently trying to guide Michael out of the door.

There was something... different about her appearance. He couldn't quite put his finger on it; the lines of the suit were cleaner, less feminine, but it was hard to tell under the oversized pea-coat she was wearing.

"Aziraphale, I just need to talk to you!" she begged.

"Michael, you need to leave," he said, trying to guide her out gently.

"No, Aziraphale, we need to talk right now!" She pushed back.

"There's nothing you can't tell my lawyers," he snapped back angrily.

"Y-you don't understand! I need to talk to you..." she spluttered.

Crowley saw red, and ran over, pulling her off him. She let go of Aziraphale in surprise and found herself pushed up against a bookshelf. "Don't you dare touch him!" Crowley growled, "Fuck off right now!"

She pushed Crowley off herself easily and snarled back, "No, you fuck off, I need to speak to my brother."

"He's not yours!" Crowley spat back, "He's not yours to fuck with."

"Aziraphale, call off your attack dog!" She pushed Crowley again. 

Crowley bristled, and felt his body go loose, ready to fight. "I will fucking hurt you if you take one more step towards him."

"I'm not scared of you, O'Crawley," she sneered, taking a step towards Aziraphale, "What do you think you're going to do?"

Crowley, blood pumping in his ears, didn't think. He felt his arm raise instinctively.

Before he knew what was happening Aziraphale had grabbed his arm, and was holding him back. "Crowley, you need to calm down," he snapped.

Michael smiled. "Good boy, now listen to me..."

A shadow passed over Aziraphale's face. He came right up to her face and hissed, "No, you need to  _ shut up _ ."

"Excuse me?" She laughed.

"I don't have to listen to you. I don't have to do anything. I want you to leave."

"Please, Aziraphale…"

"No." Aziraphale was suddenly full of rage. "You barge into my home on Christmas day, starting a fight with my boyfriend, what gives you the  _ right _ , the  _ bloody right _ to do that!" Michael stepped back, wide eyed. Crowley tried to pull Aziraphale back, but he pushed him aside and bellowed at her, "How dare you! How  _ bloody _ dare you? You've pushed me around all my life,  _ but this is it!  _ How _ dare _ you come here? This is my husband, my life,  _ nothing to do with you any more! _ " Aziraphale was shaking with years and years of pent-up anger as he screamed "YOU DON'T GET TO DO THIS ANYMORE! YOU DON'T GET TO DO THIS ANYMORE!"

Crowley grabbed Aziraphale’s hand. With that touch, Aziraphale crashed back to reality, and realised that he had been shouting. "How dare you" Aziraphale whispered, stepping back slowly, "How dare you..."

Crowley watched as Michael burst into tears and slid down the bookcase. "I...I just need to talk to you..." she sobbed pathetically, "Please, just let me talk to you."

"What could you even have to say to me?" Aziraphale asked, "Something about how I'm useless, or a failure, or stupid?"

"No!" She breathed in, ragged and painful, before she breathed out, "I...I don't want to be like this any more. I, I don't want to live like this. I...I don't know who else to turn to." She put her head in her hands, and sobbed, "Please, I need...to talk..."

Aziraphale and Crowley looked on, shocked. Aziraphale suddenly looked very guilty. He knelt down and said, "Okay, we can talk--"

"--Angel--" Crowley put his hand on his Angel's shoulder.

"--No, no, it's alright, Crowley. I can handle this," he shifted his position, so he could look at Crowley as he squeezed his hand. "If I need you, I'll shout. Please, make sure Madame Tracy is fine, Michael and I will be up in a while." Aziraphale gave him a smile which said,  _ please, trust me _ . 

Crowley, whilst not entirely reassured by this, gave him a kiss on the cheek. "I'll be just upstairs," he said, shooting Michael a warning glance.

Once Crowley was out of sight, Michael pulled herself together. "I didn't think Madame Tracy would be here."

"What on Earth brought you here?" he hissed, "Aren't you meant to be in Texas, singing Gabriel's praises?"

Michael looked at her jacket sleeve sheepishly. "I… couldn't do it this year. I've not been...well."

"So you decided to come and ruin my Christmas instead?" he said savagely.

"No, I...I've been in  _ therapy _ ." Michael whispered the word  _ therapy _ , like it was something to be ashamed of. "I've been thinking about a lot of things. Not just the stuff at the airport, but a lot of things."

"Like what?"

"I don't... I've been thinking…"

"Spit it out."

" _ I'm not female _ !" Michael's shouted, eyes filling with tears again.

Aziraphale initially looked a little shocked, but soon his expression changed to cautious concern. He sighed quietly and said, "I thought it might be something like that."

Michael looked like he'd been expecting to be hit, and was disappointed that he wasn't. "What?"

"I thought it might have been that." Aziraphale repeated.

"You could have the decency to pretend to be shocked," Michael sniffed.

"As much sympathy as I have for your position, you're hardly in a position to be demanding decency from me." Aziraphale folded his arms, and said, "Why are you telling me this? Why now?"

"I… I'm scared” Michael admitted, “I'm scared about what this means, and you're the only queer person I know." 

A conflicted look crossed Aziraphale's face. "That does not surprise me."

"Please, I just don't know who to turn to right now,” Michael begged. “I haven't been able to face Gabriel, and I saw that Greta tweeted about being here for Christmas, and when I saw the photos I thought you might…" Michael motioned his head towards Aziraphale, and trailed off, looking at his feet.

Another conflicted look flickered across Aziraphale's face as he decided what to do. For the longest moment, the only sounds in the shop were the ticking of the clock, and Michael fiddling with his shirt sleeve. Finally, his face settled on a hopeful smile. “I know what it feels like, to need someone to accept you. To be able to say who you are without being scared of being rejected . It’s lonely. So lonely. And painful.”

Michael’s face fell. “I’m sorry. I’m asking a lot of you--”

“-- Dear boy, I’m not saying this to make you leave. I’m saying this because I know how it feels. I believe you. And, well, as much as we’ve disagreed and disapproved of each other in the past,” Azirapahale allowed himself a small smile, and looked Michael in the eye, “You know that l'll have you if you'll have me."

Michael practically launched himself at his brother and hugged him hard. Aziraphale held him, looking a bit dazed at Michael's uncharacteristic show of weakness. Eventually, Michael whispered, "Thank you."

"You're welcome," Aziraphale whispered back. They looked at each other uncomfortably, before Aziraphale, shoving his hands in his pockets and rocking on the balls of his feet, said, "Christmas isn't  _ quite _ over yet. Would you like to stay for a little? I could introduce you to my boyfriend. Properly, I mean."

"Yes please." Michael smiled weakly.

  
  


* * *

Waiting for Aziraphale to return felt like the longest 10 minutes of Crowley's life. 

Not the fact he was waiting with Madame Tracy; in fact, he was very lucky that he was waiting with her as she was quick, charming and mischievous to a fault. He'd barely got up the stairs before she was asking him where he'd got the whiskey and demanded a shot of her own. 

He was very glad about this. He could tell that she was not a naturally maternal type, even as she tried to comfort him, but he was glad to be sitting with her and exchanging stories about the ridiculous, sunshine angel they both loved in their chaotic ways. 

Crowley had told her about meeting Aziraphale, falling in love with his softness and ethereal nature, and what felt like millennia upon millennia of pining before kissing him.

Yet even as he enjoyed Madame Tracy's approval, and shut down every few minutes at various implications she made ("Oh, are you keeping on top, dear?"), he didn't feel relaxed. He felt like a marionette who'd just become aware of his strings. He shifted in his seat as they waited for Aziraphale to come back. 

They were discussing Aziraphale's sweet tooth by the time the door opened gently.

Aziraphale coughed politely, and waited a moment, despite having their full attention. "Now, I know we've all started out on the wrong foot, so I want to introduce you all again," Aziraphale looked through the crack in the door and whispered, "It's okay."

Michael stepped in nervously, shifting their feet. Aziraphale placed and hand on their shoulder and said, "This is my brother, Michael."

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Thank you for reading! Please throw a comment to your humble fic writer if you can. If not, we cool.
> 
> Also, hello to anyone who came her through the recommendation on Aziraphale's Library! I hope you're enjoying yourself. Pull up an old sofa, blanket, and something warm to drink.
> 
> I hang about on Tumbrl as Bouncygin, please come say hi.


	21. Sons of the thief, sons of the saint

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> THIS FIC ATE'NT DEAD.
> 
> Apologises for the long wait, we're coming up to the last few chapters so I'm trying to figure how to tie up a load of things I set up (although the main plot has a very definite end since the start.)
> 
> Title comes from a translation of a Jacque Brel Song,[sung by Scott Walker](https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=4ZxUiTJVcVs). They're both worth falling down a Wikipedia hole. David Bowie was a massive fan of both. 
> 
> A close second title track was [Complicated by Heaven to Betsy](https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=3hEx1BBdkq4), as the entire track is how I view Michael and Aziraphale's relationship. 
> 
> Anyway, before I bore everyone to death with pop music geekery, ONWARD (After some content warnings)
> 
> **Content Warnings:**
> 
> **Reference to emotional and physical abuse of children, bereavement, toxic family dynamics, please be good to yourself if these things are triggering to you rather than a helpful way to re-interpret those situations, drinking, smoking, bad language. ******

Michael, clearly exhausted, collapsed into the armchair on the other side of the table. He looked away, unable and unwilling to meet anyone's eye.

Aziraphale wrung his hands, desperately aware of the feeling in the room, before saying, "I've utterly forgotten my manners, Michael, I haven't offered you anything to eat or drink!"

Michael laughed at his ridiculousness, and wiped at his face with his sleeve. "Yeah, I could do with one."

"Oh don't do that!" Aziraphale tutted, and passed Michael a handkerchief

Crowley brought over a hurriedly cleaned glass and the rest of the bottle of wine. "Here," he said, pouring a glass.

"I was thinking more a glass of water, dearest," Aziraphale chided.

"Oh." Crowley put the glass of wine in front of Michael anyway, who quickly snatched it up. 

"Thanks," he said quietly, guzzling the wine down. He sighed theatrically and said, "Oh God I needed that."

"Mr Crowley, can you help me in the kitchen?" said Madame Tracy. 

Crowley took the hint, and started to get up, until Aziraphale, clearly needing an escape, beat him to it, saying, "Madame, he doesn't know his way around, I'll come help!"

They headed to the kitchenette, leaving Michael and Crowley sitting in uncomfortable silence. 

Michael wiped his face with the handkerchief and loudly blew his nose. 

Then, looking at Crowley, he said, "Is that Mama's scarf?"

Crowley touched the scarf around his neck, as if he had only just remembered he was wearing it. "This?" His hand dropped back into his lap. "Think so. Aziraphale gave it to me."

Michael coughed up a sticky chuckle and rolled his eyes. "He's so corny, sometimes."

"It's a scarf," said Crowley.

"Ugh, of course you don't understand," Michael said snidely, "He might as well as given you a wedding ring."

Crowley gave him a look of annoyance. Then, leaning forward slightly, he said, "You're in his house now."

Michael looked confused. "This isn't his. This is Madame Tracy's--"

"--That's not what I meant." Crowley met Michael's eye, and whispered, "If it were up to me, you'd be in A&E with a broken nose right now. If he wants a relationship with you, great, but mind your manners."

"Are you threatening me?" Michael asked, with a smile.

"No. I'm telling you how things are going to be," Crowley leaned towards Michael, right arm at a right angle, hand flopping down lazily. "Treat him with respect. He doesn't have to put up with you if he doesn't want to."

Aziraphale interrupted by placing a food-laden tray between them. "Right, we have quite a bit of food left," he said nervously, seeing the looks on their faces, "So we've put together a plate of nibbles."

"Looks great, Angel." Crowley flashed Aziraphale an approving grin. 

Aziraphale sat down next to him, and Crowley, with a brief look at Michael, made a point of kissing his angel on the lips, and placing his arm around him. Aziraphale helped himself to a mince pie as Crowley looked at Michael malevolently, grinning from ear to ear. Crowley's sunglasses slipped slightly down his nose, his golden eyes glinting with malice. 

Michael grabbed himself a handful of crisps, and ate one nervously.

"Good, now we have some things to discuss." Aziraphale said, trying to smooth things over, "Michael, do you want to explain things here?"

Michael shifted upright in the chair. "I'm here because... Because since the airport I've been questioning a lot of things, and things aren't...right."

"Well, no, they're not," Crowley said, trying to keep his leg from bouncing.

"I've been in therapy for the last month," Michael admitted, "and it's been bringing up a lot of stuff. Not just," he motioned towards himself, as if this was an explanation in itself. "Other stuff too. I didn't realise that Aziraphale wouldn't be here on his own and I panicked. But as him and I have had a talk, I thought I'd..."

"Michael," Aziraphale said, "You're stalling." He gingerly patted Michael's shoulder, who looked at him with discomfort.

"I'm here because I'm realising that Gabriel is not the brother I thought he was. I don't mean just the queer stuff, but there's stuff with Celeste & Co. I don't understand and I need to look at it with someone who's on my side." He looked at the people assembled and said, "You lot are the nearest to that at the moment."

Madame Tracy lent forward and took Michael by the hand. "Dear..."

"Don't 'oh dear' me," Michael snarled, "Don't you pity me."

"She's just trying to help," said Aziraphale calmly.

"She can help by fucking off!" Michael said viciously, "I don't want her here."

"You don't have a choice in this matter," Aziraphale replied with icy-cold composure, "She's as much my guest as you are."

Michael looked down, and pulled his arms around his knees. "Why did she choose you?" he asked petulantly.

Madame Tracy looked like she had been slapped. "Michael..."

"Don't you ‘oh Michael’ me! You know exactly what I mean!" Michael looked away and said, "We saw it, Madame Tracy. Papa might have been working constantly over that summer, but we saw you and Mama. She didn't want us any more. She just wanted you and Aziraphale."

"Dear, it wasn't like that. She wanted to stop you two from leaving, she really did,...”

"No she didn't. She didn't want us any more."

"What are you implying?" Aziraphale asked. 

"You know exactly what I'm saying," Michael snapped.

"I don't," said Aziraphale. 

Michael's eyes flashed with anger. "For the love of..."

"She didn't choose me," said Madam Tracy sadly, "Not in the end." 

"Then why would she want to leave Papa?" Michael said sulkily, "He gave her everything."

"No, he didn't," Madame Tracy snapped back. "When I met your mother she was miserable. She was practically a prisoner, being carted from country to country with Aziraphale, barely getting to see her other children."

They sat silently, as realisation dawned over Aziraphale. "So, you and my mother..."

"I loved your mother, Sunshine," Madame Tracy said softly, "She was sweet, and soft. She came across as silly, but she was fiercely clever, and just enough of a bitch when she had to be."

Aziraphale gripped his trouser leg, feeling his fingernails cutting into his thigh. "So, you and her..."

"Oh for god's sake, Aziraphale, she was fucking our mother! That's what you're trying to say!" Michael rolled his eyes, "Christ, you are such an innocent sometimes."

"Well, when you've been kept under someone's thumb for most of your life, it tends to be what happens," Aziraphale sniffed.

"And yes, Gabriel and I knew you were fucking her," Michael lent forward, "You two, you were always obvious. Oh, you thought we were all fooled, but we knew. We knew what you were doing. She chose you over us!"

"Michael, darling--"

"--dont you dare, Tracy, don't you fucking dare! What was it? Her money? Her influence? Or just knowing you could--"

Madame Tracy's eyes flashed with anger "--did your father ever say how we met?" The room was uncomfortably silent. "I didn't think he would. Aziraphale, I was telling you earlier that he was charming but ruthless? Well, this is how I know. I was young, traveling across Japan for interesting books and prints, and, well, a young western woman with decent Japanese could make a decent living that way. Your father hired me a few times. Oh, he was beguiling. Played the role of businessman trapped in an unhappy marriage well. I'm ashamed to say I was taken in by him, but one day, when I was sitting in a local park, I met her.

"I remember it so clearly. Sunshine, you'd managed to run off and fell over near where I was sitting. There weren't many foreigners in Sapporo at that time, so I knew you were lost and needed help. When I found your mother ten minutes later, she was utterly frantic with worry. She was so grateful for finding you, you see, that she took me for lunch. It was then she told me that she already knew who I was. Knew that I was one of the women her husband saw. And that she didn't hate me."

"She didn't hate you?" Michael interrupted, "Jesus Christ."

"Your mother was so beaten down by that point, she thought she deserved it." Madame Tracy's voice was tinged with viciousness. "She thought she'd somehow earned being put down and made to feel like... chattel. This beautiful, intelligent, woman, reduced to nothing more than a childminder and a housekeeper. At first, I stuck around because we were both lonely, but after a while, we fell in love."

"I remember that you were always around the house, when Gabriel and I stayed for the holidays," said Michael, "Sunshine here was utterly spoilt by the two of you."

"I was not spoilt!" Aziraphale protested.

"Oh please, you were such a brat," Michael rolled his eyes, "You refused to look anyone in the eye, and cried any time we wanted to do anything you didn't want to do. Which was anything except play with your toys or talk about your Doraemon comics."

Aziraphale froze. "Michael, please watch your tone."

"Sunshine boy, you were an absolute sweetheart as a child, but you were a little odd," said Madame Tracy. "We were both scared for you, being sent to boarding school. It's difficult for any child, but you were so sensitive." She turned to Michael and said, "When Gabriel and you were sent off to boarding school, she thought she didn't have a choice. But with Aziraphale, she saw a chance to break free. And we nearly did, for a while. And then…"

"She came back to die," Michael said.

"... yes," said Madame Tracy, deflated.

"You didn't have to watch her die," Michael repeated, "You weren't there as she got iller and iller."

"I wanted to be there…"

"No you didn't! You had what you wanted, and then you abandoned her when she was ill."

"I didn't! I wasn't allowed to come back with her. She had to beg your father just to be allowed back."

"Do you know what it was like, coming home from...hell...just to watch your mother die? Because I do. I lived that. I saw her fading away each week, getting weaker and weaker, and no one was there for me. No one except Gabriel. It was just the two of us, watching her die." Michael suddenly stood up, and was in Madame Tracy's face, "So you need to shut up about how much you loved her. You didn't love her. You weren't there for her when she was dying. That was Gabriel and me, we were children, but we had to be there for her when you  _ weren't _ . She was my mother!" 

"Michael, you don't understand…" Madame Tracy began to sob.

"She was my mother!" Michael shouted.

"SHE WAS MY MOTHER TOO!" Aziraphale roared.

Michael and Madame Tracy looked over at Aziraphale, who was now standing up, red-faced. "She was my mother too, Michael. I watched her die  _ too _ . We all did."

Madame Tracy burst into tears, and ran to the kitchen. Crowley, feeling utterly helpless in the face of family drama, followed her.

She stood in the kitchenette, heavily grabbing at a whiskey bottle and trying to pour herself a glass without spilling any. 

Crowley touched her shoulder, and she slammed the bottle down. "Are you okay?" he asked.

"Oh, don't worry about me," she sniffed through her tears, "I...I know Michael just wants to blame someone."

"But it's not fair…"

"It's not fair I had to leave her, Mr Crowley. It's not fair that I wasn't allowed to see her or the boys again. The only way she would be allowed to see them was if she returned without me...of course Michael doesn't understand…" she drew in a ragged breath, before hugging him tightly, "I don't want history to repeat itself. If you want Aziraphale, hold onto him. Tight. Don't let yourself think that if you leave, you'll be allowed back. I never saw Francesca again and I regret it every day." She let him go, and leaned against the countertop. "I'm going to stay here for now. Please go back in. Please."

Crowley, uncertain, left her and returned to the living room, where Aziraphale and Michael sat in thick, heavy silence.

"Well done, Michael," said Crowley sarcastically, "She's going to stay in the kitchen until you leave. I hope you're proud of yourself."

Michael threw him a guilty look, before fixating on the floor. 

"Didn't you come here to talk about Gabriel, anyway?" asked Crowley.

"I...I did," Michael conceeded.

"So, what's he doing? Aside from scaring the hell out of his siblings?" 

"I don't know," admitted Michael, "But I've been looking at some of the financial stuff around the Foundation and it doesn't quite make sense."

Crowley felt himself slide forward, suddenly very interested. "Go on."

"I mean, the Foundation was funded by Celeste & Co, with money allocated from our profits for charitable spending, and some fundraising on top, run by Aziraphale, but there were funds in the account I couldn't, well account for. Before everything, Uriel had noticed and asked me about it. At the time I assumed it was her calculating it wrong, or a rounding error on our end. I sent it to our accounts department to look at before I became unwell, but when I checked up on it the other week, they said they hadn't received anything."

"It could have been from the running costs," said Aziraphale, "Everything was closed down very quickly."

"No, I don't think so. Those were factored into the money for the Foundation. And, err…" Michael looked guilty, "Most of the running costs didn't come that, anyway."

"What?"

"No, we had a different source for that."

"Wait, does that mean I was fundraising for my staff's wages?"

"No, no," Michael took a drink from his glass and said, "The Foundation was set up as a way to give you something to do that you couldn't mess up. So a lot of the running costs were funded by you."

Aziraphale was silent for a moment before exclaiming, "But I don't  _ have _ any money! A fact you have reminded me of repeatedly."

Michael made a face. "That's not exactly true…"

"Oh Michael…"

"You have a trust," Michael said, looking like he was preparing to be hit.

"A trust?" Aziraphale asked, "You mean…"

"You wouldn't be able to access it for another couple of years anyway. Gabriel and I have been managing it."

"So, you've been paying him out of his trust, and he was never technically employed," said Crowley, head in his hands. "Fucking hell…"

"So I've been stitched up from the start?" Aziraphale looked like his blood had turned to ice. "I've been paying for the pleasure of working for the Foundation all this time, and then had it taken away from me like a naughty child?"

"How on Earth did I not spot it?" Crowley groaned to himself.

"No, you really were running it," Michael said emphatically, "You really were administering it, checking over applications and fundraising, just the running costs were coming from your trust--"

"--Michael, do you have any idea how much trouble you and Gabriel are in?" asked Crowley, "Like, any idea?"

"We haven't lost any of the money! We've been investing it wisely…"

"You've been misappropriating those funds!"

Aziraphale looked Michael in the eyes and said, "You've been lying to me? And making me look like a fool?"

"You were never meant to find out!" Michael argued weakly, "You never needed to know."

"No, Michael, I rather think I did," Aziraphale said.

"Oh please, your trust is in good shape, and Gabriel did the same for me." Michael grabbed the bottle on the table and poured the last of it into his glass.

"So he didn't pay you for your work?" asked Crowley.

"I had my trust whilst I learned to manage the business." Michael took a swig of wine, trying to look nonchalant as he did so, "Once I hit 40, I got it. Gabriel had managed it much better than I would have when I was younger. Now I'm paid through dividends."

"Where the hell do you get off?" Crowley growled, "Where the...fuck...do you get off? You know that's not what that trust was for, you know that it was for Aziraphale. Actually for him. It was meant as a gift and you've just used to beat him around the head!"

"Please, dearest, calm down," said Aziraphale, his voice flat and cold.

"No, I will not calm down! This is theft! He's been stealing from you all these years! How are you not angry?"

"Can't you see that I'm furious?" said Aziraphale, his voice devoid of any emotion.

"And you're just going to let him get away with this?" Crowley spat.

"No, but we're missing the big picture; additional funds in the accounts that can't be accounted for. If they weren't for running the foundation, then that suggests that the Foundation was being used for…" Aziraphale's throat was suddenly dry, and he looked like he might collapse in on himself, "Oh God…"

"Running costs that never existed, being used to hide money…" said Crowley, sounding it out.

Aziraphale's face suddenly was hard. "Money laundering. How long, Michael? How long have you made me an accessory to this?"

"I don't know," said Michael, pathetically.

"How long?" Aziraphale asked again.

"I said I don't know," Michael repeated.

"You do know. You had oversight of the money. You  _ have _ to know."

"I don't! I had oversight, but I was making sure  _ you _ weren't taking money  _ out _ rather than someone else putting money  _ in _ ."

"Gabriel's orders?" Crowley said, bitterly. "Doing just as your big bro tells you?"

"Gabriel knows what's best for us," said Michael, "He loves us. Even when we fail him."

Aziraphale let out a laugh of disbelief. "Us, fail him? Let me tell you, as someone who has spent a lifetime failing him, I don't think he knows what he's talking about."

Michael's fingers dug into the arms of the chair he sat in. "What…"

"He's always told me that no one would want me. That only my family could love me, that my only hope was pleasing the two of you. But when you threw me out of my flat, Madame Tracy said I could stay here while I sorted myself out. Greta, who you seem to stalk on social media, tracked me down because she was worried about me, even though she had lost her job because of me. Anathema didn't need to help me, but when I told her what had happened, she insisted that I speak to one of the barristers at her chambers. And Crowley, even though he'd never met me before, even though I couldn't offer him anything, he wanted to help me. And when I couldn't decide whether to pursue him or not, he waited for me. Me! This utter nothing of a person!" Crowley looked uneasy at Aziraphale's description of himself, but nodded for him to continue, "And even when I told him to leave, he didn't. He came for me." Aziraphale's hand found Crowley's, as he said to him, "You could have left me so many times, and you would have been entirely justified in doing so, but you  _ stayed _ . And you didn't just stay, you...you loved me, despite my failings."

"Your biggest failing is not knowing how much you matter," said Crowley, the edges of his mouth turning up a little.

"Oh, I'm sure you could come up with some," Aziraphale replied, "But even so, if Gabriel is right, if Gabriel thinks that I have failed, how come so many people have come to help me? If I'm such a failure, how come such wonderful people have wanted to help me? And not just help me, they have loved me. For all my strangeness, they have loved me. Gabriel isn't right. He doesn't know best--"

"--Oh, it's easy for you, everyone has always loved you best," Michael rasped,"You fail and there's always someone to pick you up. I've always had to fend for myself, ever since I was a kid. I had to go back to that horrible school, even when I told everyone about the priest that used to hit the children and join in the bullying. No one believed me--"

"--I believed you--"

"--No one would save me, even though I was clearly in pieces--"

"--I believed you--"

"--and I had to get hard, quick. I had to look after myself, Because no one else would, that's your problem, Aziraphale, you were always too soft--"

"--why do you think I always denied them funding?"

Michael stopped, mid-rant. "What?"

"They applied every year for funding from the Miracle Foundation. They applied every year, and I always had Greta throw the application in the bin. I couldn't...I couldn't stand to put the application through, knowing how they hurt you."

Suddenly, everything was uncomfortably, oppressively silent. But no one could talk. It felt like the moment the lights come back on after a power cut. 

Michael gasped for breath like a man who had been drowning. "So...so...so…"

"I believed you. Of course I did. And I believe you now. I don't believe you'd lie to me about anything like that."

Michael looked at Aziraphale as if he shone with light. "You believed me?"

"Yes."

"And...and I treated you…"

"Yes. You did," Michael's face fell, and Aziraphale hurried added, "But that didn't mean I didn't believe you! I just wished you'd believed in me."

Michael folded in on himself. "But...but…"

"I know I've been very frustrating for you. I was a very sensitive child, and, well, I've always been a little odd. More into books and fanciful notions than sports and practicalities. But I've always admired you, even if I was nothing like you. You deserve to be believed. You deserve to be happy."

Michael let out another gasp, and it became clear that he was trying to silently hold back sobs. There was another loud sob, and finally, he cried. He cried tears that had been pushed down since childhood. They were ugly and painful, wracking his body as they flooded out. Aziraphale, initially shocked, found himself sitting next to Michael and patting him on the back as he cried. 

It took some time for all the tears to come out, but once Michael had gained a certain amount of composure, he insisted he should leave. 

Aziraphale walked with him downstairs, to the now empty shop. As Aziraphale opened the door, the click of the lock seemed to echo around the place.

Michael shrugged his coat into a more comfortable position. "So, erm, Merry Christmas, I suppose," he said sheepishly.

"Merry Christmas, Michael," Aziraphale smiled.

Michael shuffled his feet. "Y'know, I saw that you gave him Mama's scarf."

"I did."

There was a pause, before Michael said, "He said he would have broken my nose, back there."

"I don't blame him," Aziraphale looked him in the eye and said, "You were acting like a complete...silly billy."

Michael laughed. " _ A Silly Billy _ ? Do people even say that these days?"

"Apparently I do," Aziraphale laughed back.

"Christ, you are such a weirdo."

"Learnt it from you."

"Ha. No. You can't blame me. That one's one hundred per cent, pure, Aziraphale weirdness," Michael said affectionately. Then, with another look at his feet and a look towards the door he said, "You sure about him?"

Aziraphale fiddled with the ring on his pinkie finger. "I've never been more certain of anything in my life."

"Good. If you're sure, I'll take your word for it." He placed a hand on Aziraphale's shoulder as he said it.

"Don't be a stranger," said Aziraphale, "You're always welcome here."

"Thanks." Michael drew Aziraphale into a tight hug and said, "You know I still don't like you, right?"

"Of course," Aziraphale squeezed him back, "Dinner next week?"

"That sounds amazing." And with a pat on the back and a smile, Michael left the shop, door shutting behind him. 

Aziraphale ascended the stairs to find Madame Tracy setting up a bed on the sofa, and Crowley missing. "Everything all right, love?" she asked.

"Oh, I think it will be," he said, rubbing his chin absentmindedly. "I'm sorry that he was so beastly to you. You didn't deserve that."

"Don't worry about that, lovey, it's not your fault. Your Mr Crowley took care of me - very, very charming, that one."

"Yes. I'm very glad of that. I was a bit useless, back there."

"No you weren't. Everyone was highly strung..." He sat down on the sofa next to her, and let out a sigh. 

She hugged him. "I'm sorry I never told you properly."

"Dear lady, you have no need to apologise. You did the best you could. It's been a difficult night for all of us. Are you sure you don't want the bed?"

"Sunshine boy, you share that bed with your boyfriend." She smiled a mischievous smile, "If the two of you try and sleep on the sofa it'll be broken by morning!"

Aziraphale flushed red in embarrassment. "Madame, please!"

"I'm an adult! I know how adults act! And I suspect you'll both have some  _ frustrations _ to work out." She winked at him knowingly. 

Aziraphale, somehow, managed to go redder. "Please, Madame Tracy, no more"

"I don't know when you last changed the sheets--"

"No, no, stay on the sofa! Just stop talking about it!" 

Madame Tracy couldn't resist a giggle at how red he'd gone. "It's fine. I'll head back to Crouch End tomorrow. Go find your young man."

"Where is he, anyway?" he asked, the question only just dawning on him. 

"Oh yes, Mr Crowley's having a smoke on the roof. Didn't seem worth going downstairs seeing that you and Michael were getting on." She lay back and said, "You should go up and join him for a bit. It's been a long day."

Aziraphale didn't quite understand, but left her in the little living room, and climbed out of the skylight above the bed. 

Crowley sat on the roof tiles, looking out at London as he took a drag on his cigarette. He didn't seem surprised to see Aziraphale, but practically radiated happiness as he patted the space beside him. Aziraphale shuffled next to him, and rested his head on Crowley's shoulder.

"It's been a hell of a day, hasn't it?" Crowley said.

Aziraphale sighed. "It really has. A lot to process."

They sat there, content in each other's company. Crowley flicked the butt of his cigarette down into the street. "Is every Christmas like this for you?"

Aziraphale couldn't quite raise a chuckle. "No. Very much not. I promise my life is usually very boring." He felt Crowley slide his arm around him, and lent in closer. "This whole year has been...well, it's not my usual." He fiddled with the ring as he spoke.

Crowley propped his own head on Aziraphale's and said, "I dunno. I could get used to this level of drama. Better than re-watching Ghost Stories on my own."

"Oh shut up," Aziraphale slapped Crowley's leg without any force, to which Crowley gave a throaty laugh.

They sat quietly, looking at the lights over the city. London's ugly mis-matched buildings never looked so beautiful as they did when they were together. 

"You know," Aziraphale said, looking out over the town, "I never finished giving you your presents."

"Oh?" Crowley touched the scarf around his neck. 

Aziraphale looked down at his hands, wriggling the ring from his little finger. "I...had a plan, you see, to give you the scarf and explain it, but, well..."

Crowley cracked a smile. "Best laid plans."

"Well, it's sort of a gift. Perhaps socks would be better," Aziraphale laughed nervously, and pulled the ring off his finger. He shifted slightly, and said, "Do you remember after the airport, and you asked me if I'd move fast?"

"Hard to forget."

"Ha, yes." he said gloomily. Then, after a pause he said, "And I said I'd try to keep up with you?"

"Yeah."

"This year has been a whirlwind for me. Everything's changed. I thought I'd lost everything, when the Foundation closed. And I'm ashamed to say that I've been very focused on myself this year. But then I met you." Aziraphale turned to Crowley. "And suddenly the worst thing that's ever happened to me became one of the best. Being with you makes me...brave. Like I could do anything, if I have you by my side. So, for once, I'm going to be the one that moves fast." He grabbed Crowley's hand, and holding out the ring said, "Would you make me the happiest man in the world?"

Crowley looked stunned. He looked between Aziraphale's hopeful face, the ring and their hands, and back again. "Are you sure?" he choked out, eventually.

"Yes," Aziraphale said softly, lips slowly morphing into a smile.

"I'm not making you go too fast, am l? This is a big step--"

"--just--"

"--yes, of course I will." Crowley squeezed his hand and kissed him. Aziraphale almost dropped the ring from shock. Once both of them had regained their composure, Aziraphale slid the ring on Crowley's finger.

"It fits you perfectly, my love."

Crowley held out his hand to look at it. "It's beautiful."

"Suits you." Aziraphale smiled, and kissed Crowley on the cheek. Those kisses then drifted from Crowley’s cheek to his jaw. 

"Y'know, the only bad thing about this is that I don't get to propose to you," Crowley said, gently guiding Aziraphale back to his lips.

"Crowley, just kiss me," Aziraphale replied.

* * *

Madame Tracy dreamt of a garden. 

It was overgrown, light only coming through the canopy of creeping vines in dapples. In the middle sat a n arbour covered in Boston ivy.

Inside the arbour sat a plump, blonde woman, wearing a loose white dress. The woman looked up, and smiled at Madame Tracey.

“How is my sunshine boy?” she asked.

Madame Tracy smiled back. Then, with tears caught in her throat, she said, “He’s happy.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Okay, I'm not gonna lie, this chapter is a _lot_ \- I hope everyone is good. I promise that it will be getting much happier in the next few chapters, but I've had all this backstory in my head that I felt needed to come out. __
> 
> _ _Please leave a comment if you can, but if not, we're still good._ _


	22. I hear you Telephone Thing listening in

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> So:
> 
> a/ This fic aintent dead. Any sensible posting schedule is, though. 
> 
> b/ I've finally got a The Fall track in! This excites me more than it legitimate. [Link to 'Telephone Thing'](https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=WzAOiA4dH_o) , which isn't one of their more iconic tracks, but gives you a decent idea of what The Fall were about: 20th Century Poetry about Class Warfare and structural issues set over something halfway between 4 chord punk and winding, hypnotic Krautrock. Now how to force in a The Monks track...
> 
> c/ No content warning! Except ** Bad Language, Work Calls over Holidays, creepy-as-heck pet names. ******

Beelzebub ignored the call twice before checking who it was. When she saw Crowley's name flashing up on her phone screen, she rolled her eyes, stood up and said, "Right girls, I've got to take this."

"Mu-um! No!" protested Rosier. "You're always working! Stay here with us!"

"Yeah, Mum, would it kill you to take a day off? I saw you checking your emails yesterday," said Berith, watching as Beelzebub opened the door.

"I'll only be a few minutes," Beelzebub said, looking through the gap, "I'm sure you can live without me that long." 

She closed the door and answered the vibrating phone. "Crowley, it's Boxing Day, what could you even be calling...wait, wait, slow down...what? Money laundering? Through the Miracle Foundation? What?... No, no, you did the right thing calling me… this is serious stuff you're saying...and Aziraphale didn't know...I mean he was the CEO…Crowley! Shut up for a minute and breathe...his brother did what?...Oh for fuck’s sake...What do you expect me to do about it, Sandalphon & Uriel are dragging their feet, I can't do anything until the paperwork turns up...you certain about this...okay, okay, I believe you… I'm going to have to tell Hastur...you can moan all you want, but if I tell him it's going to be better than if he finds out himself… No, I'm not going to HMRC until I've seen the figures for myself...right...right...right...and you think...well, it's no more insane than anything else I usually deal with, and Adam can learn a bit from this...yes, I know, distressing, but there's nothing doing until we get the paperwork in...okay, some of us have children at home for the holidays and want to spend time with them; tell Mr Celeste that we're going to look into it, and not to panic. If he's being implicated in anything, we'll make sure he's covered as best as we can...look, you're the ex-criminal barrister, tell him whatever you told your innocent clients...okay, tell him whatever you told your less guilty clients...is that everything you want to talk about?... trusts? Oh bloody hell... We'll talk about those as soon as the money laundering stuff has been looked into...one thing at a time Crowley...look, I've got to go, but we'll talk when you're back…bye Crowley. Have a good break, okay? It's probably just an over-reaction."

Beelzebub ended the call, and held the phone in her hand a moment, tapping it with her thumb as she thought. Then she sighed, and scrolled through the contacts.

* * *

Hastur was rudely woken up to the sound of his phone vibrating. He sat up straight and without looking at the contact snapped, "I told you, I'm not taking calls...Beelz, what're you doing callin' me, it's 8am… I'm on holiday with me wife...I don't have to tell you where I am...okay, okay, I getcha...what?...WHAT?" he let out a demonic cackle, which quickly progressed into a much less demonic smoker’s cough. "Beelz, I'm going to use this to hang the ginger arsewipe by the balls...uh huh...uh huh...yes I know this isn't his case...of course I'm not just happy because it's the viper's bumchum... all right Beelz, I won't say 'bumchum' to him, I'm not an idiot...uh huh...uh huh...I'll get Dowling on it ASA fuckin' P…thanks for the Christmas present, love...uh huh... Uh huh...I won't call you love anymore if you're going to be a bitch about it... right, see you in Chambers, then…" 

His wife stirred next to him, face obscured by a mess of dishwater blonde hair.

He leaned over her fondly, and stroked her hair. "Back to sleep, little tadpole," he said soothingly, "I've just got to make a quick call and I'll be back."

She made a noise of understanding, and turned over, settling into the pillow.

He got up, and throwing a robe around himself, went to the balcony.

* * *

Warlock Dowling stepped out of the drawing room his parents were using for their social-climbing event, and shivered in the cold of the old house.

"Hey, Hastur, I thought you...you got a job for...what?...WHAT?...Oh man, that's gross...oh shit, that stuff's a big deal...you want me to what?... I'll try and get back quickly, but I'm stuck here until Chambers opens again...yeah...yeah… I'll try to get in early...no man, I will...holy shit this is a lot...okay, okay, I'll try and get in before Adam does...yes, I know this is important...Hastur!...Okay, I'll email you as soon as I have anything…"

As soon as the call ended, Warlock let out a deep breath, and gently thudded against the wall. He'd barely had any time to process anything when he got a message through from Adam.

_ Hey, you would not GUESS what Beelzebub just messaged me about! _

_ Lemme guess,  _ Warlock typed back,  _ Money Laundering? _

_ Fuck, _ came the reply faster than he expected,  _ so it's got back to you two as well… _

_ No one's gonna come out of this looking good. _

_ Ikr? I can't believe us pupils are getting into such a weird case.  _

_ Yeah.  _ There was a pause before Warlock messaged,  _ I hate that we can't work together on this one. _

_ Yeah, I hate it too.  _

Warlock looked at his phone, a sad smile crossing his face as he typed back,  _ I miss you, Adam. _

There was an uncomfortably long pause, as Adam was clearly writing and re-writing his message back, before  _ I miss you too, 'Lock _ , pinged back.

_ How was Christmas?  _ Warlock typed back.

_ Good, actually. Got drunk at Mr Celeste's. _

_ Ate ALL THE FOOD _

_ It's ridiculous how much Crowley loves Mr Celeste.  _

_ Oh! And I got to watch Newt and Crowley argue about Brit Pop. _

_ It's the dumbest thing I've ever seen in my life. _

_ Seriously. _

Warlock smiled to himself.  _ I wanna come along next year. Dad talked about his new woodshop for hours. _

_ And mom kept on bugging me to go to the woodshop with him. _

_ Fuck that.  _

There was a pause, and then a laughing emoji. 

_ Haven't heard from any of my parents, but Pepper is staying in London with me.  _

_ We're having a movie marathon day. _

_ We're very hungover. _

_ I cannot explain how hung over we are. _

This was followed by a vomit emoji. 

Harriet Dowling popped her head around the door. "Hey baby, was it anything important?"

Warlock quickly swiped away from WhatsApp, and replied, "Yeah, Hastur says that the case we're working on...he says that there might be evidence of money laundering, so I gotta get back to Chambers straight after the break."

"Oh sweetie…"

"No, Mom, it's cool! It's really good experience; it'll look great on my tenancy applications."

Harriet looked as if she was going to protest, but instead took a deep breath and gave him a gentle hug. 

"Mom," he said, a little stronger this time, "Seriously, it's good. It's exciting."

"I know, Warlock. I just don't like them calling you over Christmas."

Warlock rolled his eyes. "Mom, Dad has done nothing  _ but _ take calls or make calls or have meetings over Christmas!"

"I know sweetie, but that's your dad. That's how he is. I don't like that…"

"...Mom, it's okay." He gently pushed her off him, and with a hollow smile said, "I'm just gonna have to head back a little early. Like, a day early at most."

"Okay sweetie. Come back inside?" She put her hand on his shoulder, guiding him back in.

"Sure, Mom. But if dad calls me an attorney again, you know I'm gonna call him out, right?"

Harriet sighed. "I know honey."

The door shut behind them with a quiet click.

* * *

Crowley stared at this phone, hoping that he’d done the right thing. 

He finished his cigarette as cover, and went back into the bijou brunch restaurant which had miraculously been able to make space for the three of them. 

“Everything all right, dear?” Aziraphale asked as he sat down.

Crowley was stone-faced, jaw set in a rictus of annoyance. “Oh, nothing, just Beelzebub wanted something. All sorted now.”

“Calling on Boxing Day! The nerve of it!” Madame Tracy exclaimed. Then, picking up a menu she said, “I could do with a Bloody Mary. What do you boys want?”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Thank you for reading! Please throw a comment to your humble fic writer if you can. If not, we cool.
> 
> ATM I'm averaging about a chapter every two weeks, but if the UK ends up like the rest of Europe, I could suddenly have a LOT more spare time. 
> 
> I'm also over at https://www.tumblr.com/blog/bouncygin, so come and say hi! I mostly re-blog, but I will experiment with real posts soon


	23. Squared to it, faced to it, it was not there

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Hi Folks, how's quarantine/lockdown going for everyone? I hope everyone is staying safe, and is able to get the supplies they need. 
> 
> I'm gonna make this quick, so I get it posted quickly, my end! Title from [The 15th by the Wire](https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=gV9MIQGgTEo)
> 
> KannaOphelia, there is an element of this I think you will like very much!
> 
> **CONTENT WARNINGS**
> 
> **Bad Language, discussion of injustice/abuse in the abstract, discussion of past trauma. ******

Dagon was in the kitchen, pouring herself a coffee, when she saw him. She nearly dropped the mug as she shouted, "Fucking Hell, Crowley, what have you done to your hair?"

Crowley skirted around her, trying to hide his smirk, and grabbed a coffee mug just above her head. "Happy New year to you as well, Dagon."

"Your hair!" she repeated, "It's... short!"

"Your powers of observation didn't leave you over the holidays," he replied, taking a cafetière from the counter and pouring himself a coffee.

"I've never seen you with short hair," she said, coming back to her senses.

"Thought I could do with a change," he said, running his left hand through the subject of the discussion.

"Yeah, I like it, but Crowley...your hair!"

"I know, I got it cut, how was your break?"

"It was okay. Didn't do much. Spent most of it on Twitter arguing," she replied, and then with a smirk of her own creeping across her face asked, "How was yours?"

"Good, good." Crowley smiled, a far-off look in his eye. "Aziraphale threw a party for Christmas day, met some of his family, slept a lot. All good."

"So, what about the hair?" 

"Yeah, Aziraphale went to his barber, I ended up chatting with him, and, well and..." Crowley made a snipping motion with his hands.

"It's so short" she said, her voice full of awe. She reached out, asking, "...can I touch it?"

Crowley ducked out of reach. "No! Only person touching it is Aziraphale!"

"Spoilsport." She poured herself a coffee.

" 'morning Crowley - Oh sweet Satan you look like a ginger Nazi"

" 'mornin' Ligur." Crowley sipped at his coffee. "Good holiday?"

"Less good for seeing you. You look like a member of the Hitler Youth reserve team." Ligur pushed past Dagon and Crowley, and grabbed a coffee mug and a cafetière . 

"Fuck off. I had a great break, by the way."

"Oh, did he propose in the end?"

Crowley almost spit out his coffee. "What?" 

"Did he propose to you?" Ligur repeated.

"How the--"

"--He told me he was going to do it. Wanted to get a legal opinion on it first, so we had a little chat while you were shouting about Britpop or something." 

Crowley was speechless. Dagon squealed with excitement. "Crowley, you've got to tell me everything!"

"Ask Ligur," Crowley sulked.

"I didn't do anything! I was asked my opinion and I gave it!" Ligur was clearly enjoying how annoyed Crowley was.

"He proposed, I said yes, that's all you need to know."

"When's the wedding? Can I invite a plus one?"

"I've been engaged for a week! And apparently the last person to know about it!" Crowley gave Ligur a look.

Ligur looked back at Crowley puckishly, and said to Dagon, "Actually, I think he'll end up having to run that past you, being the trusts expert."

"Ooooh! Baby's first Estate Planning!" Dagon squealed with unnatural glee, "I'm so excited for you! What're you thinking? Separate trusts for spouses are the norm, but if you're feeling kinky, maybe you'll go for a joint one..." Dagon gave him a sickening wink. 

"No!" Crowley stepped back, holding his coffee to his chest, "I never said anything about getting you lot involved in this! I've only been engaged a week and you're already like a pack of dogs. I'm going to go get my briefs." 

He was about to storm out when Newton came in. "Congratulations, Mr Crowley!" he said cheerily.

"Fuck off," Crowley snapped, and left to a chorus of  _ ooooooohs _ .

He entered Anathema's office, shouting, "Yes, yes, I'm engaged! I'm marrying him! Great news! Now give me my work before I engage any of you fucking well-wishers with my fist!"

"Oh my God Crowley, what have you done to your hair?" Anathema gasped.

"I had a haircut, but apparently this is more news than getting engaged to my boyfriend." He ran his left hand through his hair again. "I swear, next time I want to keep you lot off my back I'll cut my hair."

"You look very smart," Anathema said, trying very hard not to snigger.

"Give me my cases. I can't stand you lot when you're like this."

"Can I see the ring?" 

Crowley rolled his eyes, and held out his hand. Anathema held just the tip of his third finger. "Oh, it fits perfectly."

"It does, doesn't it?" Crowley allowed himself a moment of softness, before snapping, "How many people did he tell?"

"Just me and Ligur. And, well, I had to tell Adam and Newt to get them to help me out..."

"Oh for heav--for Sata--for someone's sake!" He growled in frustration, and grabbing a bundle of papers off the table, left.

He was barely three steps out of her office when he tripped over a hand trolley loaded with cardboard archive boxes. 

He cursed, rubbing his shin, and shouted, "What the hell are these!"

"Delivery from Sandalphon & Uriel," said Adam, rushing down the stairs, "Jesus Christ, Crowley, what have you done to your hair?"

"I got it cut!" he replied.

Delivery men brought in another couple of trollies, loaded with boxes, filling the hallway. "I like it," Adam said approvingly, "Oh, congratulations by the way!"

"Thanks." He mumbled the word like a curse.

Beelzebub lent over the banister. "Sandalphon & Uriel finally pull their finger out? Get those boxes up 'ere before Hastur finds out-- _ Shitting demons on a pogo stick _ , Crowley, you look like a man."

"Thanks Beelzebub, same to you."

"Right, lover boy, help 'im with the boxes, I need them in my office." Beelzebub stomped back to her room.

Adam thrust a box at Crowley, which almost bowled him over. "I think you're in trouble," Adam grinned.

Crowley sighed and lugged the box up to Beelzebub's office. He kicked the door to her office open with the tip of his winklepickers, slammed the box on a table and collapsed on top of it dramatically.

"Thanks," she said, leaning back in her chair, "Adam has quite a day coming up, looking through this lot."

"I don't doubt it," said Crowley, running his left hand through his hair nervously. "The only thing I've been told was for this year, but obviously it could go back to the start…"

"I know. That's why Adam is going to check through it. On the upside, it'll get him out of my hair for finishing up a few cases of my own." Beelzebub grinned. "Not a bad deal. I should thank you." She steepled her fingers, and with a piercing glare she asked, "Now, is it true?"

"What true?"

"You know what I'm talking about."

Crowley nodded, and raised his left hand, showing off the ring. 

Beelzebub leaned forward, putting her head in her hands. "Fuck." She looked up at him and said, "This makes things complicated." He stared at her. "If they can argue that you've had undue influence over him--"

"--He's the one who proposed," said Crowley.

"Even so, if...you haven't booked anything yet?"

"Of course not! We've only been engaged a week."

"Good. Keep it quiet, and for the love of all that is evil don't get married until all of this is over!"

Crowley looked like he was going to argue, but decided against it. He leaned against the box, and looked down at his feet, shoving his hands in his pockets. "Noted." 

They were silent for a moment, Beelzebub deadly still. Crowley started tapping the floor with his right foot. 

"I know you're right," he said, "I...just didn't want to think about it."

"I'm not doing this to be mean," she said defensively.

"I know." He refused to look up, focusing on his tapping foot.

There was another uncomfortably long pause. "Y'know, I'm looking out for him here."

Crowley's glare was hidden behind his sunglasses. "I know that."

Beelzebub sighed. "Aziraphale's getting out of a bad situation, that much is clear. It's all...a bit close…" She pointlessly moved some papers on her desk. "You know why I left family law behind?"

"No money in it?" he grunted.

"Well, that didn't help, but it wasn't that." She stared at the papers, before pulling them down, looking just beyond where he was standing. "It got too much for me. Seeing people going back to their abusers. Seeing abusers who'd left their spouses disabled for life get custody of their kids. Seeing the vile bastards who'd destroyed someone cross-examine their victims in court, seeing them glaze over. Family is difficult, but not because of the legal side. It's knowing that if your client isn't squeaky clean, if they smoke a bit of weed, or are too exhausted to clean up their flat, or a bit too gobby in court, and aren't good victims for the judges, that they'll end up with their kids in care, or having to send their kids to their abusers every other week, or being told that the things that hurt them never happened or they deserved them." Beelzebub was deadly still as she said, "I see little bits of that in this. His family controlling everything in his life. Grinding him down, making him feel useless. But that's not going to be enough. He needs to be a good victim, and getting married to his boyfriend of a few months a good victim does not make."

Crowley didn't look up. "I know that. I do. I just wish it wasn't so."

Beelzebub grabbed a paper from her desk, balled it up and chucked it at Crowley. "Oi, no moping in my office!"

It bounced off his temple, and Crowley let out a low chuckle. "What do you do about Adam?"

"I throw a lot of paper at him." 

"Oh yeah, what about him and Warlock? At the Christmas party?"

Beelzebub leaned back in her chair, steepling her fingers and said, "As the Deputy Head of Chambers, I have no idea what you're talking about. But,  _ but _ , if I  _ did _ have an idea of what you were talking about, they would have been advised to leave all of that outside of chambers. At least until the mediation is done. And it should be done by the time he's got a third six at a Criminal set."

"Not been able to talk him out of it yet?"

"He's 25. Try telling a 25-year-old anything they don't want to hear," Beelzebub scoffed. "I swear, you lot are worse than the demons I have at home."

"I'm sure that's--"

"BUT I NEED THEM!" screamed Warlock, just outside the room

Beelzebub rolled her eyes. "You were saying?"

"NO I DO!" Adam screeched back.

"Right, get out of my sight, l'll shout for you if I need you." Beelzebub slid out the chair and opened the door. Then, just before she left, she said, "Congratulations, by the way."

* * *

Crowley was late home that evening. He hadn't meant to be, but with him not answering emails over the holidays, and the client meetings he'd promised when he was back (thankfully they'd all been happy to accept an hour on Skype rather than making him travel to their solicitors), and the constant interruptions from the other members (congratulating him, commenting on his haircut and, in Dagon's case, putting her head in his room to whisper about estate planning and prenups, before running off cackling), he didn't leave until just past nine. 

It didn't help that he'd been distracted by knowing Adam and Beelzebub were looking into the money laundering issue. He'd downplayed it over the holidays, trying to make out that it was less of an issue than it was, but it stayed at the back of his mind, like an itch he couldn't scratch.

He was exhausted by the time he got back to the shop. He dragged himself up the stairs, up to the flat, and dramatically collapsed on the sofa. His head conveniently landed on Aziraphale's lap. 

Aziraphale, reading a book at the other end, gently stroked his head. "Hard day, my dear?"

Crowley let out a groan that reverberated through his bones. 

"Shoes off the sofa, please," Aziraphale said, barely able to contain a smile.

Crowley groaned again, this time a more throaty, raspy noise, and kicked his shoes off. 

"That's better, my love," Aziraphale stroked Crowley's head again, "Now, have you had anything to eat today?"

"I knew I forgot something!" 

"Oh, you idiot!" Aziraphale ruffled his hair a little harder than necessary, "I'll go sort out some food for you now."

Crowley pushed himself up on his elbows. "You don't--"

Aziraphale planted a kiss on his forehead, "No, I don't. But I want to." He stood up, and walked to the kitchenette.

Crowley slumped back on the sofa. "You really don't need to feed me," he shouted, "I should be the one taking you out for dinner."

"Dearest, have you ever considered that I might want to look after you?"

Crowley was silent, and found himself staring at an invisible spot on the ceiling. 

"I am rather fond of you, you know."Aziraphale busied himself with putting together a meal from leftovers in the fridge. Then, tentatively, he said, "Adam called me earlier. Said that it’s early days, but from what he’s checked, everything seems to balance. Looks like no money laundering took place through the Foundation."

"Oh." Crowley continued to stare upwards. Then after a moment he said, "That's a weight off your mind, isn't it?"

"Rah-ther, dearest." There was another pause before he said, "he also said he wants me to come in next week."

"Oh?"

"They want to discuss my case with me before they put in a request for mediators."

" 't's good that things are starting to move along." Crowley sat up slowly. "You can start getting out of this limbo."

"Ha, yes." Aziraphale said noncommittally. He sat back down heavily, and put the plate on the table. "There you go, dearest."

Crowley looked at the plate a moment, before preparing himself to eat the sandwich placed in front of him. Turkey and salad on buttered bread. He understood that. He ate it gratefully and quickly. 

As he did, Aziraphale placed his hands on his knees and asked, "I was wondering...would you...come with me?"

Crowley finished his bite. "Absolutely, just say when."

"Thank you. These things always make me a bit nervous."

"Y'don't need to be. They're on your side, you know."

"Well, yes, Beelzebub QC is being very kind here…"

"No, I mean it. Not just legally. Beelzebub doesn't take this sort of thing on often. She cares about this."

"As a training exercise, perhaps--"

"No, no, not just like that. She has enough going on for Adam to take a crack at, but I think that...I think she's seen stuff like this before and cares. She can put it right. She's on your side." Crowley lay back down on Aziraphale's lap. "I'll be there, but they will have your best interests at heart."

Aziraphale let out a low chuckle. "A lot of people have had my best interests at heart over the years."

Crowley shifted slightly. "I know they have."

"Doesn't fill me with confidence."

Crowley reached up for his hand. "This is about you. What you want. That means that they can give you the legal facts and you get to decide what happens next, even if they don't like it."

Aziraphale took the hand. "Thank you dearest. It still means a lot to have you there."

"No problem." Crowley pulled the hand down, and kissed it where Aziraphale's ring used to be worn. 

Aziraphale's cheeks flushed pink, and he smiled the smile he made when he was overcome with contentment. Crowley felt his own face fall into a loose smile as Aziraphale's hand worked its way across his scalp.

"I do like your hair short," Aziraphale said, running his perfectly rounded fingernails around Crowley's ear. Crowley made an appreciative sound, like a cat in the midst of a perfect petting session. "Your face is exquisite, dearest, " Aziraphale cooed appreciatively. His finger gently brushed against the scar on Crowley's face, who shuddered the smallest of shudders.

"Oh, I'm sorry--" started Aziraphale.

"--No, it's fine," Crowley said, holding his hand, "It's okay. I'm okay."

Aziraphale's hand hovered a moment as he said, "May I?" Crowley nodded. Aziraphale ran a soft thumb over the scar carefully and deliberately. He smiled, eyes crinkling at the edges, "You are so very beautiful. And your scar just adds to it. It shows that you've lived. It shows that you've survived."

"I...wish I never had to," Crowley sighed.

"I wish you never had to either." Aziraphale stroked Crowley's face, running his fingers from his ear, to his jaw, to his chin, "You deserved better."

Crowley felt himself soften and relax into the movement of Aziraphale's hand. Resting there a moment, eyes gently fluttering closed, he said, "That part of my life is over, now." He took Aziraphale's hand, and gently kissed the fingertips. 

"I know it is, dear, but…"

"Sometimes I need to remind myself of that." Crowley smiled to himself, and placed Aziraphale's hand in his firey red hair, "You're the best reminder that I'm not there. Clever, loving... beautiful."

Crowley looked into Aziraphale's stormy sea eyes, his own gold ones burning with a passion that could stop the world.

Aziraphale’s cheeks heated up with the ambivalent embarrassment of wanting to be told that he was beautiful, but not being able to believe it. He broke away from the glare and kissed Crowley on the forehead. Aziraphale smiled again, and stroked the base of Crowley's skull, causing him to gasp with pleasure. 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Thank you for reading! Please throw a comment to your humble fic writer if you can. If not, we cool.
> 
> ATM I'm averaging about a chapter every two weeks, but once I get my lockdown schedule sorted, hopefully I'll be a bit quicker. 
> 
> I'm also over at https://www.tumblr.com/blog/bouncygin, so come and say hi! I mostly re-blog, but I will experiment with real posts soon


	24. 1, 2, 3, 4, 5, senses working overtime!

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Hi Folks - how are we all doing? It's pretty scary right now, everywhere. I'm still writing, but typically for me, I'm being distracted by every shiny thing that may or may not exist. 
> 
> Let's just say that you should be glad you aren't quarantined with me, because my poor editor has been putting up with me blasting [The Vengabus](https://youtu.be/6Zbi0XmGtMw) at him, and talking about [The Cliopadra 'Snitties' comic](https://twitter.com/clitopadra/status/1243628874002567169). I should get hired by hell. 
> 
> Title comes from [XTC - Senses Working Overtime](https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=NrcemZpOmpI)
> 
> **Content Warnings**
> 
> **Bad language, brief scenes within a residential mental health unit, very passing mention of poverty and places in London where there is poverty, unintentional gaslighting by one character to another (although they will be vindicated in the chapter after next, and hopefully it's made clear that they are believed, but need more evidence.) Please be good to yourselves. ******

Ligur was getting ready for court when he heard Hastur storming past his room. Hastur’s bad mood permeated through the walls like the stink of a sewer pipe. Ligur couldn’t resist a grin whilst he hooked his band around his neck, and checking his collar was straight, he popped his head around the door. 

Hastur was often in a filthy mood; that was no surprise, but today...today  Hastur looked like the nightmare of a demon wrapped up in a dirty rain mac.

It was then when Crowley came barreling down the stairs, clearly on his way to court too. His eyes widened, and he tried to navigate his way around Hastur, who was blocking the narrow hallway. 

Hastur’s arm shot out, hand thudding into the thin brick wall. “Crowley…” he growed.

Crowley looked down at the hand, dirty nails clawing into the wallpaper. He looked back up, and snaking under the arm he said, “Not got time, Hastur, on my way to a hearing, drop me an email, maybe--”

Hastur turned to face Crowley and barked, “--Dowling spent three days looking for evidence of money laundering and there’s none! Absolutely none!”

Crowley stopped, and made a choking noise, which very quickly turned into a breathless chuckle. 

“Stop laughing!” Hastur said, raising his voice, “This isn’t funny! This isn’t funny at all!”

Crowley grabbed him by the arms and laughed. “Hastur, if you weren’t a fucking scrote with a face like you just shat a Lego spaceship, I could fucking  _ kiss _ you.” He let go, and with a skip was heading back down the hallway. 

“Crowley!”

Crowley strutted down the hallway, hips swinging like a broken metronome, and as he passed Ligur he punched the air in triumph, and with an ecstatic grin on his face said, “Can I hear a wah-hoo?”

“CROWLEY GET BACK HERE YOU LANKY FUCKING BOLLOCK!”

Without looking back, Crowley threw his hands up, lazily flicking the V’s behind him. In possibly the worst impression of Winston Churchill to have ever been made, Crowley croaked wetly, “This is your victory!”

* * *

When Ligur next saw Crowley, it was late afternoon. His face was slightly flushed from the cold outside, and was closing the door to chambers behind him. He was wearing a wool overcoat, and a tartan scarf that looked like it had been passed down through the centuries. 

"How was court?" he asked.

"Yeah, fine, you know what hearings are like. Just took the morning. Met Aziraphale for lunch afterwards."

"Go anywhere nice?"

"Managed to get a table at Simpson's."

"Oooh, fancy."

"Oh, shut up," Crowley said, smiling. "Lunch with someone who's not a client or your pupil; it's something you won't know about, being single."

"Losing your touch, Crowley. Did your boyfriend give you that scarf as well?"

"Yeah." Crowley grinned.

"Doesn't suit you."

"Good. Means you can tell it's a gift." Crowley paused a moment and said, "Do you want to go for a drink after work?"

Ligur looked at him, surprised, and said, "Are my ears deceiving me, or is the great Anthony J Crowley asking me, a mere mortal, out for a drink?"

"Yeah, I am. Although I'm regretting it now."

"To what do I owe this wondrous occasion?"

"Aziraphale's visiting his brother this evening," Crowley sighed nervously.

"I thought his brothers were awful?"

"They are. I need something to take my mind off it."

"Well, lucky for you, I have time to kill before the BAME Barristers Association meeting I have this evening. Chattering Nun?"

"If no one else is there, sure."

Ligur rolled his eyes, but found it hard to suppress a grin. "Satan forbid you be social at the pub."

"You finish about 6 today?" asked Crowley, as he started going up the stairs. 

"Yeah, I do."

"See you there."

* * *

It was already dark by the time Aziraphale was walking down the gravel path to the hospital. For a place in London, it felt very far away from everything. As he got further down the path, it seemed to get darker and darker, and he ended up feeling more and more conscious of the sound of his feet crunching against the gravel, and the way his breath hung in the air. 

He had to remind himself that he was visiting a hospital, not a haunted house. The path was made for cars, not visitors on foot. 

He saw a light in the distance and headed for it. Soon he found himself bathed with the orange light of the carpark, illuminating the front of the listed building like it was on fire. 

He took a deep breath and exhaled nervously, watching as it hung in the air, dissipating slowly. 

Inside it was bright and cream, decorated in a style that seemed modest to the untrained eye. It was also so warm that he thought he might have to strip down to shirt sleeves. 

It tooks a few seconds for Aziraphale to see Michael, hunched over his phone in a wingback Chesterfield armchair. For a brief moment he considered leaving, but instead stepped over to the chair.

*

Ligur and Crowley had been served at the Chattering Nun when Ligur said "So, you going to explain the haircut to me?" 

"I thought I said," Crowley stared at his wine glass. "Went with Aziraphale to his barber, fancied a bit of a change." 

"Bullshit," said Ligur, sipping his beer, "You've never had your hair short. Even when you were interviewing for pupillages."

"So, I threw a bucket of water over you, destroyed a phone and a suit, am now engaged to a man after years of dating women, but all you want to know about is a haircut?"

"Yep. Did he pressure you into it or something…"

"Antichrist, no. I saw him getting his done and fancied it myself."

"Yeah, but that short? With nothing covering that scar?"

"Is it that noticeable?" asked Crowley, holding his hand over it.

"No, it's not. But you've always talked about it like you should be living in the basement of an opera and stealing lead sopranos."

"Oh fuck off."

"I will not fuck off. You've kept that fucking thing hidden for years. You trying to look more straight?"

"What?"

"Y'know, what with being gay now--"

"I'm not gay," Crowley said between gritted teeth, "I'm  _ bisexual _ . It's different. And no, I'm not trying to look straight."

"Good, because it's not working."

"Aziraphale said he thought short hair would show off my face nicely," Crowley finally admitted, "and before you start, he didn't 'pressure' me. He just said it as he was getting ready to go get his hair cut and...I went with him."

"So you got it cut to please him?"

"I did  _ not _ !" Crowley took a sip of his wine. "I got it cut because things feel different now. I don't need it any more."

"...and because your boyfriend said it'd be nice."

"For the last time, Ligur, I wanted it. I mean, he's gone from being under his family's thumb and being a good, lonely little boy to choosing to be with me and possibly losing the life he used to have. So, well, I can change too. I can get a haircut and stop being so hung up on hiding this scar."

"Does this mean you'll stop being a complete bell-end at Chambers?"

"I said I'd change, I didn't say I'd be a completely different person," Crowley laughed. 

"Point."

They chinked their glasses together, and drank.

"So, erm, I did have a question for you…"

"Uh huuuuuh."

"I'm thinking of giving up smoking. I know you like your vape, so, err…"

Ligur let out a booming laugh. "Fucking hell! Where is the real Crowley, and what have you done with him?"

"No, really! I want to try giving up!"

"Giving up is for quitters."

"Yeah, laugh it up. I've never had a reason to think about it before."

"But now you've got your boyfriend?" Ligur joked.

"Well, yes. And it's expensive and shit for my health."

"Uh huuuuuh."

"Stop saying that! I've got more to live for than making another QC application."

Ligur groaned. "Don't bloody remind me. I'm already drafting it up. The competition hasn't even been announced yet. I've even been paying for a coach."

"Bloody hell, you're serious this year."

"I've been serious every year, Crowley, but this year I'm taking the gloves off. I've been going on outreach programs at the kind of school you went to. I'm hoping that if I get the Treasurer position at the BAME Barristers Association, it'll look good on my application."

"You're already busy with your practice, and Pepper."

"I know, but I need something else," Ligur said gloomily, "I've been to fucking Hounslow. That's how desperate I am.  _ Hounslow _ , Crowley, you know what's in Hounslow, except an airport? Nothing. Absolutely fuck all." He took another drink, as if to wash away the very thought of the place.

"Fuck," said Crowley, sympathetically.

"I know. That, on top of my practice. At least I've had some good cases this year, can put down a few judges to vouch for my advocacy skills and all that nonsense."

"I never knew how much you went through."

"Ever think of doing it yourself?"

"Naw. Well, I did when I was at New Albion. Then, well…" he made a complicated hand motion to indicate how things had changed. 

Ligur nodded as if he understood. "I'm going to get it, this year. I'm going to get it even if it kills me. If I have to listen to my mum going on again about how cousin Gordon is a GP now,  _ so why aren't you a QC _ , I'm gonna go spare."

"I'm so glad I've not got any family," Crowley took another sip of wine, "Seems like more trouble than it's worth."

"I love my mum. She's amazing. Nothing is ever too much trouble for her. She'd kill a person if she thought it would help me."

"Has she stopped calling you an attorney, yet?"

"Yes. Sort of. She at least knows that it's solicitors and barristers in the UK."

" 't's an improvement," said Crowley with an economical shrug. Then, trying to be casual, he checked his phone. No new messages.

"So, what's the deal with Aziraphale and his brother?" asked Ligur, noticing.

Crowley rolled his eyes. "He's a massive dickhead. I don't like him. But he's had a breakdown, and Aziraphale's gone to visit him in the hospital…"

"That's nice of him."

"I know. That's the problem. Aziraphale  _ is _ nice. I just…Michael bullied him his whole life. And Aziraphale is acting like that doesn't matter. I worry about him."

"He's an adult. Not a little kid."

"I know, but for someone so clever he can be remarkably stupid at times."

"I understand why you like him," Ligur smiled.

"Heh, yeah," Crowley gripped his glass so hard it could shatter, "But, y'know, I don't want Michael putting him down for a few hours and have to spend the next few days bringing him back up."

Ligur looked at Crowley kindly. "Aziraphale is an adult. He knows that if Michael is being a bell-end, he can leave and go back to you. He also knows that his brother has just had a breakdown. Trust him to look after himself."

"Ligur, when did you start getting so fucking Zen?"

"When I was facing my third QC application."

Crowley checked his unnecessarily mechanical watch and said, "Right, you need to get to your meeting. I'm going to fuck off home and listen to loud music."

"Oh fuck, I really do." Ligur finished his drink and said, "Wish me luck. Who knows, I could be heading to sunny Harringay next."

"Rather you than me."

"You'll be laughing on the other side of your face when I'm a QC."

* * *

  
  


"No, no, no, I don't understand!"

"It's quite all right, Michael, we all make mistakes…"

"No, you don't understand, I didn't! I didn't! I checked the figures twice!"

"Michael…"

"Sunshin--Aziraphale, I wouldn't just make up something like that, I checked it! I checked it!" He grabbed at the tablet charging on his bedroom table and his fingers skated across the screen with movements halfway between practice and grace. He shoved it desperately in Aziraphale's face, "Look, look, that doesn't add up. It just doesn't."

Aziraphale looked at it, uncomprehendingly. "I know what you said, but it's been looked into, and actually everything is accounted for."

"It's... it's not," Michael whined, throwing the tablet into the bed, "I wouldn't tell you this unless I thought it was real."

"I believe you. I really do."

"So why can't you just take my word for it?"

Aziraphale was quiet for a moment. In the past, Michael might have jumped in, seeing the silence as a weakness, as a reason to attack, but instead he waited for Aziraphale to collect his thoughts. Finally, Aziraphale answered, "I will ask my lawyers to look at it again. But we don't want to rush into this. What happens if this is just a calculation error and there’s no issue? Gabriel would have a field day with both of us. His idiot brothers causing a huge commotion over nothing, trying to claim a mistake on our end is a conspiracy? How do you think you’d fare, sticking up for the family embarrassment?”

“Gabriel and I have always had a good relationship up until now--”

“--when you were doing what you were told, Michael. And not questioning him.”

Michael was silent, caught off balance at Aziraphale talking so plainly about the matter. He sat on the bed, resting his thumb against his lip as he stared at the carpet. “It was always just us, when we were kids. Just me and him, keeping each other sane. He knows I wouldn’t lie.”

“Maybe so, but I think that he would sacrifice you to keep the business,” Aziraphale said gently. 

“You don’t understand our relationship!” Michael said, slamming a fist into his thigh, “You were always an interloper, an annoyance, but us two...we were allies. We had to be.”

“You had to be. Dearest, I think you’re forgetting that you don’t have to be allies now. Maybe he doesn’t--”

“No, no, I’m going to prove it to you,” Michael said, reaching for the tablet, “I’m going to prove it. I can...I can send it to you. The paperwork, I mean.”

“I think we have it, but thank you…”

“No, I mean where I saw it! I can have it sent to you! If we verify it, understand where it really came from…” He swiped quickly over the screen, suddenly very focused, “I think I can still get Sandalphon & Uriel to do things for me, even from in here…”

* * *

Crowley hadn't had a night truly to himself in months. Normally he'd spend a night like this drinking in his Mayfair flat, causing a nuisance with his record collection, maybe put on a film. 

Instead he'd spent an inordinate amount of time ordering a vape, and finally, finally, started reading  _ Holy Terrors _ . He'd carried the book with him since Aziraphale had given it to him by the statue of Eros. It felt like a lifetime ago, but in all that time he'd not even cracked open the cover. It'd been more of a lucky charm, in that time, first of all as an anchor to the Angel, then as a reminder of what they shared. It felt so precious to him, so emblematic of their relationship, but had he actually read it? No. Of course not.

He stuck on a record, and making himself comfortable on the sofa, finally opened it. 

The business card that had been in it fell out on his face. He picked it up, and saw it had been one for Aziraphale’s foundation. It was thick, white card, with a pair of wings embossed into it, his telephone number and email address on the back. 

_ Oh, he did want me to contact him, _ Crowley thought to himself. For Aziraphale, especially the one he'd first met in Autumn, this was practically throwing himself at him. He tucked the card into the back of the book for safe keeping, and opened the orange cover. 

He froze when he saw a hand-written note. In slightly erratic, rounded handwriting, it read, "To Francesca, from one Holy Terror to another, much love, Tracy."  _ Aziraphale you liar _ , he thought affectionately,  _ extra copy indeed _ ! Sometimes he thought he'd got used to how Aziraphale thought, but the angel was full of surprises. He couldn't resist twirling the ring on his finger as he pondered it. 

_ Right, relaxing _ , Crowley reminded himself,  _ time to read. _

He had barely made it through ten pages when he heard the door to the shop. He marked his place with the card, and sat up in a flurry of limbs, half rolling, half standing up. 

Aziraphale came through the door to the flat, face flushed from the exertion of the stairs and from coming in from the cold. He was somewhat surprised to find himself being hugged immediately upon entry.

"Dearest, what is this all…"

"Just reminded how much I love you," said Crowley, with a kiss.

"Well, if this is the welcome I get, I should go out more," Aziraphale smiled to himself.

"How is Michael? Enjoying his time in the cuckoo's nest?"

"Crowley!" Aziraphale chided.

"Sorry. How is he anyway?"

"Oh, that's a big question," Aziraphale sighed and collapsed on the sofa. He gently tugged at his bow tie, loosening it. Crowley battled between the desire to be a good partner and listen, and the lizard part of his brain that was thinking about kissing that neck and pulling his shirt off. 

He made an uneasy compromise and flopped down next to Aziraphale, arm around his shoulders. "Was he a dick?"

"Crowley!"

"Okay, okay, but he was all right to you?"

"Yes, he was. We just had a lot to talk about,” Aziraphale took a moment to gather his thoughts before he said, “Its strange. It's exhausting."

"Yeah, I can hear that."

"Oh, and he was constantly on his phone. Apparently he was having a very good argument on Twitter that he had to keep checking in on."

"He sounds as bad as Dagon," Crowley laughed, "Can't get her off Twitter for anything."

Then, in an unexpectedly agile move, Crowley swung himself across Aziraphale's lap, straddling him. He slid the bow tie out of Aziraphale's collar, and dropped it dramatically next to him.

Aziraphale smiled, gently placing his hands on his lover’s bony hips. "Oh, what are you in the mood for now?" he purred.

Crowley carefully placed his hands on Aziraphale's chest, before leaning in and whispering,"Sssssssex." He kissed Aziraphale hungrily on the mouth, and gasped, "Quite extraordinary amounts of sex."

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Thank you for reading! Please throw a comment to your humble fic writer if you can. If not, we cool.
> 
> ATM I'm averaging about a chapter every two weeks. Lockdown hasn't made me quicker, I'm afraid!
> 
> I'm also writing a bonus smut chapter after after this one, but want to let it sit before I edit it. It won't have any plot in it at all (Absolutely porn without a plot), so you can skip it and I will also make sure that there are as many explicit warnings as I can make. 
> 
> I'm also over at https://www.tumblr.com/blog/bouncygin, so come and say hi! I mostly re-blog, but I will experiment with real posts soon


	25. Venus as a boy

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> ** WARNING - THIS CHAPTER IS EXPLICIT**
> 
> This Chapter is the long awaited/dreaded “PeturbingPrism tries to write sex.” Take it as read that this Chapter is rated E for explicit (as well as E for effort, and Effort.)
> 
> If sex isn’t you thing, this chapter can be missed out entirely. It very intentionally had zero plot.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> So, name of the chapter comes from [Björk's 'Venus as a boy'.](https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=7Z5aPaDwAkU) Björk has been a gap in my music knowledge for ages, but someone has this in a playlist and it has earwormed me to heck. 
> 
> ANYWAY, onto the chapter! If sex is your thing, but you have some squicks, here is a list of stuff that you might want to be aware of before you make the decision to read. 
> 
> ** Content Warnings**
> 
> **Blowjob, intercrural/interfemeral, very (very) mild cock and ball torture, NSFW body worship, positive descriptions of a fat body, anal play, complete lack of plot. **

In an unexpectedly agile move, Crowley swung himself across Aziraphale's lap, straddling him. He slid the bow tie out of Aziraphale's collar, and dropped it dramatically next to him.

Aziraphale smiled, gently placing his hands on his lover's bony hips. "Oh, what are you in the mood for now?" he purred.

Crowley carefully placed his hands on Aziraphale's chest, before leaning in and whispering,"Sssssssex." He kissed Aziraphale hungrily on the mouth, and gasped, "Quite extraordinary amounts of sex."

Aziraphale grasped Crowley's face in both his hands and pulled him into a deep, rhythmic kiss. Crowley placed his hands on Aziraphale's chest, letting out moans of pleasure between kisses. His hands clasping at the fabric of the shirt, kneading it like a kitten, his hips writhing against Aziraphale's soft belly. Each cycle of the full body kiss they went through made Crowley harder and harder, cock pressing against his jeans, almost painfully.

Aziraphale's own cock grew hard, its delicate head rubbing between Crowley's legs as he enjoyed his lithe lover's flexibility. His strong, soft hands worked their way up from Crowley's slim hips, up the concave curve of his waist, skimming past the shoulder blades, fingers settling at the base of his neck, holding Crowley in place.

Aziraphale's hands pulled his lover into a kiss, in which he occasionally pulled at Crowley’s bottom lip with his teeth. Crowley felt the firm grip of those fingers drawing him in, those gentle bites, and let out an involuntary groan at the show of strength. Aziraphale placed a powerful hand on Crowley’s arse, pulling his body closer to his. The feeling of his cock against Aziraphale's belly, both firm and yielding, was almost enough for him to see stars. Instead he fell down in Aziraphale’s lap, legs around his Angel's heavenly body, and allowed Aziraphale to draw him further down into their kiss.

Crowley gasped for air, and undid the buttons on Aziraphale's waistcoat, and then his shirt, hungry to see him. He rested his head in the crook of Aziraphale's neck, lazily kissing the warm, smooth skin, as he slid the shirt off, hands wandering down the peaks and valleys of his body. 

Aziraphale moaned as Crowley gently teased those pink rosebud nipples, nestled in thickets of golden hair. He admired the peaks of Aziraphale's nipples, resting just above his sensuously curved belly. His hands gently descended down to his waist, just where his hips blossomed out, and let out a whine of excitement. Aziraphale's hips were a work of art, a perfect curve of flesh that made Crowley's brain explode like a Catherine wheel when he touched them. 

A divine bolt shuddered down Crowley's spine, leaving him speechless. He clumsily climbed out of Aziraphale's lap, using his Angel’s reassuring weight to anchor him as he clumsily kneeled between Aziraphale's thick thighs, and undid the buttons on his trousers. Aziraphale's cock sprung up, barely restrained by the thin fabric of his boxers. 

Crowley’s gaze drifted from his handsome boyfriend’s manhood, up past the rounded prominence of his stomach, covered in a forest of golden hair, up past silver lines running little paths through the rolls and crevasses that fascinated him, that he would be more than happy to explore forever, up past the pointed mounts of his nipples, petal pink and ready to bloom. His eyes drifted further, up past the cushioned moat of a double chin and up into those changeable, sky-coloured eyes. 

Their eyes met, Aziraphale drinking in how slim and compact Crowley was, how lithe and beautiful he was. All sinew and muscle and bone, wrapped up in olive skin blessed with clouds of freckles. How even with short hair he still had a serpentine androgyny about him. How those yellow eyes burned with lust and devotion that he could have found sinister, but instead found bewitching.

Aziraphale couldn't help but smile as he saw Crowley's eyes light up and said, "You like what you see?"

"Yes, yes, I do," he moaned, eyes glazed over with bliss, and he looked up at Aziraphale, looking up at his lover. He was overcome with awe and love and lust, unable to say how much he liked what he saw. He kissed his way down Aziraphale’s thigh to his crotch with deliberation, enjoying how fleshy they felt against his lips. 

Aziraphale exhaled with delight, cock twitching with anticipation. Smiled benignly, he gripped Crowley by the hair, and pulling Crowley's head towards his erection whispered,"Show me."

Crowley pulled apart the buttons of the boxers’ fly, and eyed up the thick, red dick. He could see it bobbing with slight anticipation, and smell the warm smell of precum. His own cock pressed against his jeans painfully, and he could feel it leaking with salty desire. The pain felt so good. He knelt down, pressing the heels of his feet into his crotch, shivering with pleasure from the pain. 

Crowley gasped in awe at Aziraphale’s magnificence and with one hand tightening around the base of his penis, whispered reverently, "You are so beautiful." 

Aziraphale blushed, but had no time to say anything as Crowley wrapped his mouth around his cock. Suddenly, every hair on his body stood up, every inch of skin alive to the pleasure between his thighs. He could see Crowley greedily sucking, tongue tickling the underside of his cock as he slowly moved up and down. His mouth was inviting, so wet and warm and tight and...every inch of him was electrified with rapture. Hearing Crowley groan as he took in a mouthful of air before diving down, pushing his cock down into his mouth, past the jaw, past the tongue, just to the edge of the throat where the head was squeezed by the gullet. Aziraphale threw his head back, his entire body in a cataclysmic state of urgency. He placed a hand on the back of Crowley’s head, encouraging him to stay there.

He could sense Crowley looking up at him as his body shuddered with excitement, and felt those lips suddenly shift into what could only be a smile. With a brief breath, Crowley dove down again, this time his tongue massaging the whole way down down his length with snakelike grace.

Aziraphale felt muscles deep in his core spasm, and there was a moment where he felt like he was floating and exploding at the same time. He came hard, seeing stars, no, whole solar systems spinning before his eyes. He heard himself shudder out a cry of ecstasy and lent back into the couch cushions. He was glad that he was sitting down as his legs felt weak and vague.

Crowley looked very pleased at Aziraphale's response. His eyes flashed with wantonness, as he swallowed Aziraphale's seed and started to trail up his body, kissing his way back up. Crowley maneuvered himself on top of Aziraphale, and they fell back in slow motion. 

Crowley, hands either side of Aziraphale’s head, stared with the expression of a dog that had just caught a car. Aziraphale smiled playfully, and suddenly Crowley was wrestled below, Aziraphale sitting triumphantly above him, golden hair shining like a halo in the yellow light of the hanging ceiling lamp. All of Aziraphale’s weight sat above his crotch, and it was a divine kind of pain, feeling his cock being squashed by his gorgeous, plump lover. The look in Aziraphale’s eye told him that he knew exactly what he was doing. 

Aziraphale leaned forward, his fleshy chest touching Crowley’s thin, bony one. Aziraphale kissed him greedily, releasing the weight on his cock. Crowley gasped and moaned and writhed in bliss, his own nipples standing to attention. 

“Oh, you like this, don’t you my dear?” Aziraphale purred, watching Crowley’s barely contained euphoria, “You like it when I take charge?”

“Yes,” Crowley choked out.

“You like it when I make you helpless, dearest.” Aziraphale kissed Crowley’s neck, nippling at the skin playfully. Crowley made another noise, not entirely human, as Aziraphale sucked gently at the skin around his neck, and breathed, “All trapped under me, my big, heavy body…”

“Please?” Crowley whispered, “Please can you...hurt me...there.”

Aziraphale looked decidedly pleased. He sat up, pulled Crowley’s jeans off with a number of strong tugs, and grabbed his cock through his underwear. Then, with a knowing glance at Crowley, he squeezed hard. 

Crowley felt the pain and pleasure mingle in his brain. The sensation washed over him, making the hairs on the back of his neck stand up and his back arch in confusion. He gurgled, trying to remember how to breathe, waiting for the overwhelming sensations to subside. As soon as he could breathe, he sat up and kissed Aziraphale deeply. They wrestled with each other to lead, hands roaming over the other’s body like pilgrims in search of holy ground. 

Suddenly Crowley pulled away and breathlessly said, “Thighs.”

“Dearest?”

“Thighs, “ he repeated, “I want your thighs.” Crowley placed his hands either side of Aziraphale’s legs, as if making a point. “I want to fuck you there.”

Aziraphale kissed him in understanding, and said, “Do you want me to…”

Crowley put a finger up to Aziraphale’s pink lips and said, “No, I’ll go get it. Just make yourself comfortable. I want to come back to you.” He ran his fingers through Aziraphale’s blonde curls and gave him another kiss. “I want you naked” he whispered.

The hairs on the back of Aziraphale’s neck stood up. “Oh.” 

“I want to see you as I fuck you, you gorgeous thing.” Crowley kissed him again, and escaped to the bedroom for a moment. 

Aziraphale did as he was told, taking off his boxers and trousers, and threw them on the armchair. He tutted at the waistcoat and shirt, now both creased, and threw them on the chair as well. Despite having cum only a few minutes ago, he felt his cock growing hard again at the thought of Crowley,  _ his _ Crowley, his beautiful, sylphlike darling, coming back and admiring his curves and rolls like he was the most breathtaking thing in existence. He was still getting used to the idea that Crowley found him attractive. No, not merely attractive, _ irresistible _ . 

He knelt on the sofa, and carefully, slowly, lay down on his front. He wanted to make sure that his round arse was on display; it might not be being used, but he was more than aware of how much Crowley liked to marvel at it. At the very thought of Crowley running his hands over his buttocks, gripping them, hearing that hot shakiness in his breath, his cock swelled beneath him, rubbing against his doughy belly. 

He let out a small moan of pleasure as Crowley padded back in. There was a look of hellfire in those golden eyes; he clearly liked what he saw. He shimmied behind Aziraphale, and as predicted, cupped his backside in his hands with a gentle squeeze. 

"You have such a sexy arse," Crowley growled. He squeezed a generous amount of lube into his left hand, and returned the other to Aziraphale's butt. Crowley tugged at his own cock, now huge with arousal, and moaned, "But today I want those thick thighs."

He rubbed his hands together, and probed Aziraphale's thighs. It made a loud, wet, noise as he lubricated the insides of Aziraphale's legs. Aziraphale couldn't help but gasp from the cold of the lube against his warmth, just where his legs kissed together. 

Crowley could barely control himself. He plunged himself between, and half-collapsed with the sheer pleasure that shot through his cock like lightning. He wrapped one arm around Aziraphale's soft midsection, clinging to it tightly, and started to thrust with slow deliberation. Aziraphale moaned, feeling the rhythmic thud of Crowley’s hard, bony body against his perineum, each whack vibrating through him inside, overwhelming him with orgasmic energy. His knees buckled as Crowley sped up, and he was enraptured with euphoria as he was pushed down against his own erect cock, now rubbing against the sofa and his plump body. 

He was insensible with pleasure when he heard Crowley whisper in his ear, “Do you want me to…”

Aziraphale cried back, “Yes, please -”

He felt a slim finger probe inside him, gently stroking him. It was all too much. Aziraphale groaned overcome with all the sensations, pleasure shooting up his spine. 

He felt Crowley press harder, and could hear between laboured, heavy breathes, “You...like that...Angel?”

“I do, I do!” he squeaked back,

“Fuck, Angel, I just want to make you cum for me, over and over again, until you’re not able to talk.”

“Crowley…”

Crowley pushed a second finger in him, his hips bucking quicker as he fucked him between those wobbling thighs. 

Aziraphale bit his lip, keening with exhilaration.

“I fucking want you, Angel, I want you--”

Aziraphale couldn’t hold on any longer. He felt like he was flooded with light, radiating euphoria as his body succumbed. He wailed explosively, body wracked with spasms of release. 

As Aziraphale came around him, Crowley felt his own pleasure rocket and he came, orgasming in a whirligig of satisfaction, ecstasy and serenity. He flopped down on top of Aziraphale, exhausted and content. 

He felt Aziraphale wiggle under him, dislodging Crowley from on top. A moment later Crowley was held close to Aziraphale’s soft body, strong arms wrapped around his spindly ribcage. As Aziraphale kissed the back of Crowley's neck, Crowley let out a sigh of relief, and snuggled into the plushness of Aziraphale's body. 

Aziraphale chuckled, and pulling him closer to his chest asked, "You comfortable there?"

Crowley hummed in the affirmative, and pulled the arm around himself sleepily.

Aziraphale kissed the back of Crowley's neck again, taking in the scent of him, and placed a leg over him possessively. Crowley took the opportunity to press his slim hips against Aziraphale's pubic region, and for a very rare moment was entirely still, only half awake. Aziraphale stroked his sideburn absentmindedly as they lay together. They practically glowed with contentment, Crowley basking in his Angel's heat. 

After what could have been mere minutes, or achingly short hours, Aziraphale finally said, "Shall we move to the bed, my love?"

Crowley made a noise like an inconvenienced cat, and pawed at the blanket covering the sofa. "No, I like it here."

"There's more room on the bed."

"Nope," he said, "I don't want more room. I want to stay curled underneath you forever." Crowley snuggled further under Aziraphale's plush body, gently kissing the underside of his arms. Then with a sigh of contentment he whispered, "You're so sexy. So bloody sexy."

  
  


**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Thank you for reading! Please throw a comment to your humble fic writer if you can. If not, we cool.
> 
> ATM I'm averaging about a chapter every two weeks. Lockdown hasn't made me quicker, I'm afraid! Next week I'm back to writing unnecessary amount of plot. 
> 
> I'm also over at https://www.tumblr.com/blog/bouncygin, so come and say hi! I mostly re-blog, but I will experiment with real posts soon


	26. And there was times I'd take my pen/ And feel obliged to start again

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Hello again! I haven't posted in ages, but I promise I have been writing! Just very, very slowly. Time is weird right now. 
> 
> In other news, this story is now over 100k words, which feels very weird to me! This is pretty much the first time I've ever committed to completing a project, and it's ridiculously long!
> 
> Title from ["Rip it up"](https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=UzPh89tD5pA) by Orange Juice. Such a tune. If it's hot and sunny where you are, it's a love song that makes me think of being caught in a summer shower. 
> 
> **Content Warnings**
> 
> Aside from bad language, and it ending on a bit of a downer, none! I'm as shocked as you!

Aziraphale's appointment at Brimstone Chambers came about uncomfortably fast. Crowley had made sure that his calendar had been cleared, all clients told that he wouldn’t be taking any calls or emails that day; he’d even turned his phone off to prevent temptation. 

As he sat in the lobby with Aziraphale, feeling sick to his stomach, he mused that this was probably how a lot of his clients had felt. Crowley had never been a client before.  _ That wasn't exactly true _ , he mused,  _ I’m technically not a client now _ . Aziraphale was a client. He was, at best, moral support (Crowley allowed himself a painful grin at the idea of him being a moral  _ anything _ ).

He'd sat with clients before, as a criminal barrister. Sometimes they screamed at him, calling him every name under the sun, when he'd told them they’d definitely be facing time in prison. At first it'd got to him, making him hate them almost as much as the system that condemned them, but after a while he became numb to it. You had to. You couldn't let every frustrated, pissed-off person, who was convinced that you were incompetent because you couldn't pull some loophole out of your arse, get you down. 

He'd taken that numbness with him to Brimstone. It was hard to get excited about some oligarch getting ripped off over property because the bloke they were buying from was more crooked than they were, or look into new and interesting tax 'efficiencies' which stopped them paying a penny of tax to the country that made them that filthy lucre. In fact, that numbness had served him well; he was mostly able to keep his own anger under control, or at least not aimed at his clients. 

He felt Aziraphale’s warm, comfortable presence next to him, and allowed himself a smile. He should hate Aziraphale, really, someone who had got through life on his family's name and money. But he didn't. He loved him. He loved his softness. He loved his compassion. He loved how his concern wasn't making more money, it was making the world more fair. He loved his handsome, cuddily boyfri--, no, not boyfriend,  _ fiancé _ . Fiancé. Such a wonderful word. It was a word that filled him with a warm pride. He loved me _ .  _ He  _ chose _ me. 

_ When did I start getting so soppy, _ he asked himself, but knew the answer already. When he allowed himself to get invested in Aziraphale. And it felt damn good. 

He was snapped out of his meditative state by Anathema saying, "Take Angel through to the meeting room – there's a fresh pot of coffee in there."

"I hate that meeting room. It’s always too hot and stuffy,” Crowley said petulantly. 

“Beelzebub and Adam will be down in a few minutes. She just got caught on a call... there's biscuits in there as well."

"Not any good ones."

"There would be good ones if people didn't keep stealing them," Anathema said, with far more annoyance than was warranted.

"Biscuits for meetings should always have a certain allowance for... shrinkage," Aziraphale added helpfully.

"Shrinkage would be fine if all the chocolate ones didn't disappear immediately, leaving me a bunch of oatmeal cookies."

"Ah, that's your problem, thinking anyone wants dry fruit in their biscuits," Crowley said sagely. "I think you know what you need to do; just don't buy them."

"He's right, you know," Aziraphale said puckishly.

"Don't encourage him!" Anathema replied.

"Dear, I'm going to  _ marry _ him."

"I know. He's already the worst _ ,  _ when you two get married his ego's going to get so big it'll...cause the apocalypse!"

"It will not," Aziraphale assured her, "I will help keep him in check."

Anathema snorted. "Oh please."

Aziraphale smiled. "Crowley dearest, would you kindly take me through to the meeting room?"

Crowley felt his body stand up. "Sure, Angel."

Aziraphale cocked an eyebrow. "See?"

"No, no, that doesn't count!" Crowley spluttered, "... And don't gang up on me!"

Aziraphale and Anathema exchanged smiles as Crowley sculked through to the meeting room. It was just as promised; a too-big table in a too-small room with a window positioned just weirdly enough not to let any light in. 

Crowley slumped down in one of the chairs, trying to look cool and disaffected, but was betrayed by his leg immediately beginning to bounce. Aziraphale pulled a chair out, and sat down next to him, back straight. He pulled a notepad out of his pocket and placed his hands in his lap. 

They sat in awkward silence for a few seconds before Adam came through the door, arms full with two heavy-looking lever arch files.

"Sorry about the wait, Beelzebub's just finishing up her call," Adam said, awkwardly trying to place the folders on the table, during which they almost slipped out of his grasp, "Oh yes, congratulations, Mr Celeste! Crowley said that you two are now engaged?”

“Oh yes, we are.”

"That’s amazing. You two make a very sweet couple." Adam grabbed four cups from the side and arranged them loudly. "Coffee?"

"Oh, yes please," Aziraphale replied, smiling his social smile.

Once the coffee pot was placed on the table in front of them, Adam dramatically checked for anyone walking past, and with a flourish opened one of the files. 

On top of the paperwork were ten individually wrapped double chocolate chip cookies. "Help yourselves," said Adam, practically glowing with pride.

Aziraphale helped himself to a couple, as Crowley asked, "Where did you get these?"

"Well, whenever Anathema orders in biscuits, Pepper and I sneak into the supply cupboard and liberate some of the chocolate ones," said Adam. "They just disappear so quickly, y'know?"

"Right," replied Crowley.

"That, and I've never come across a chocolate biscuit not worth stealing," said Adam mischievously.

The door swung open, and Adam closed the file with lightning speed, sitting down quietly. 

“Right, apologies for the wait, gentlemen.” Beelzebub, swept into the room like a pint-sized prince of hell, “I’ve had to make a few calls because of some documentation that arrived this morning.” She tossed three envelopes on the table, and took a seat. “So, it’s good news. I think. But we’re not as prepared as we thought we were.”

“So--” Adam said, grin disappearing quickly. 

“Yep,” Beelzebub replied, “Everything checks out, so far.”

Everyone looked at the pile of envelopes on the table, waiting for someone else to break the silence. 

Finally, Beelzebub snapped, “Adam! Go ahead. You’re the lead here.”

Adam sighed, and stood up to reach the cream-coloured envelope on the top. It was the smallest of the three envelopes, and looked the most expensive with its thick paper and embossed wing design on the back. He passed it to Aziraphale, who carefully pulled out two further envelopes and a handwritten letter. 

“So, this arrived this morning. And it’s good news. It’s from your bank, saying that your old account has been closed and a new one set up for you. You’ll want to move your money out of the basic account, but your sibling, Mich--”

“--Michael.”

“Michael no longer holds any control over it. It’s yours, now.”

Aziraphale turned one of the smaller envelopes over in his hand, as if scared of opening it. Crowley could see his hand shaking a little. 

“We can open it at home,” he said comfortingly, “Look at it properly there…”

“It’s mine?” Aziraphale said dreamily, turning the envelope over again, feeling the weight of it in his hands.

“No one has any control over that account, except you,” said Adam, uncomprehendingly. “There’s a letter in there from Michael.”

Aziraphale’s fingers clumsily opened the folded letter, and read it out loud.

_ “Dear Sunshine, _

_ Thank you for Christmas, and for coming to visit me in the hospital. It took a bit of arranging, but you should have everything that’s yours now.  _

_ Don’t start thinking that I like you, though.  _

_ Warm Regards, _

_ Michael.” _

He put down the letter, and smiled painfully. “It’s an awful lot to take in.”

“Wait until you get to the next one,” Adam said excitedly, grabbing the white document envelope from the middle of the table, “A bank account is the least of it.”

He passed the envelope to Aziraphale who pulled out a wad of papers. “It’s your parents’ will, and the trust they set up for you,” Adam grinned, clearly ecstatic at the thought, “I’ve only had a quick look through, and Dagon is our trusts person, but let's just say that with a with a bit of wise investing and a decent stockbroker, you could live very comfortably without having to work ever again!”

Aziraphale practically paled at the thought. “Oh.” He held the papers without looking at them.

“I mean you have stocks and shares in a wide variety of industries, including a whole load in Celeste & Co, properties across England, and even a collection of paintings and woodcuts...as I said, I still need to go through everything and list it so it can be checked…”

Aziraphale flicked through the papers, trying to look as if he was taking anything in. He stopped at a picture of a pretty stone cottage situated in an overgrown garden, suddenly interested. He looked up and asked, “Including this place?”

Adam seemed put out. “Yeah. Sure. But have you seen the central London property? It's insane. The amount of revenue you get from that yearly! I think you might even own the flat I live in…" He trailed off, looking at Beelzebub a moment. Adam obviously noticed some minor change in her expression, and cleared his throat. "That last envelope... it's the potential evidence of money laundering, but comparing it against the records we received from Sandalphon & Uriel... we're worried that these documents were doctored, somehow."

"That's what the calls were about," added Beelzebub, "I had to see what could be authenticated before your appointment: the will, trust documents and bank account are all real, but these account documents... they're going to take some time to check. They could be falsified evidence of wrongdoing."

"And Michael would have reason to do that," said Crowley.

"No he wouldn't!" Aziraphale said, wringing his hands, "Michael was in charge of the compliance side, anything which would implicate me would implicate him twice as much."

"So assuming that the papers are falsified, who benefits from it?" said Crowley.

"I...I don't know," Aziraphale seemed to fold in on himself.

"Right, so working on the assumption that the papers are true, what happens?" asked Beelzebub.

Adam thought for a moment. "If this were true, then Aziraphale would potentially receive prison time for aiding and abetting, the fine would clear out the bank account, and Michael, as the compliance person, would definitely receive prison time for money laundering."

Aziraphale looked down at the table, now completely closed down. 

Crowley squeezed his hand under the table as he said, "And assets, what would happen to them?"

Adam looked like he was processing the words for a moment, before he replied, "The ones within Aziraphale's trust would be near untouchable, and would probably stay with the trustees. If he ended up doing prison time, they'd hold onto them longer."

"And who is Aziraphale's trustee?" Crowley spat angrily, folding his arms. “Gabriel, that’s who.” 

They sat quietly for a moment, the name exploding like a bomb. Beelzebub, shellshocked, said, "He could keep that trust longer, and when Aziraphale came out, he'd be virtually unemployable…"

"...but it doesn't make sense. Why would Gabriel do this?" Aziraphale asked. "We're his family. This would drag his name through the mud!"

"But would it, though?" Crowley asked, tilting his head to one side. "It'd drag your name through the mud, and Michael's, but he'd be protected. He could buy out your shares quietly and give you a little stipend to beg for." Crowley grabbed the bundle of papers with the trust details out of Aziraphale’s hands and flicked through them until he found the details regarding the stocks. "There." He said, pointing to the papers, "Angel, you own a third of Celeste & Co. Gabriel and Michael were left a third each as well. Right now, Gabriel controls your third through the trust, but if you were done for fraud? He’d have good reason to buy you out. So, with his third, that would give him full control of the company. And the trust gives him enough of an arm's length to allow it."

"But if Michael was in trouble, well, wouldn’t his stocks end up being sold on the market?" said Aziraphale.

"Collateral damage,” said Crowley baldly. “He'd still have two thirds control, and Michael was his little puppy, he would have blamed you. At least, that's what I think was meant to happen." Crowley paused for a moment, "Remember what Michael said to us, that he was checking to make sure you weren't taking money out, rather than someone else putting money in; I think...I think that Michael was meant to take this to Gabriel. I think he was meant to take this to Gabriel, and the two of them would blame this on you."

"But instead Michael took it to me," Aziraphale said quietly, blanching as the words came out.

"Exactly." A grin of pure malice spread across Crowley’s face like a pen leaking through the pocket of a new shirt. "And now it's complicated the whole thing--”

"--Crowley, shut up a minute." Beelzebub put her hand up to shush him. "At this point, it's all conjecture. Adam, we're going to have to look at all this again, just to be sure, but let's look at the issues it raises without putting on our tinfoil hats." Beelzebub threw Crowley a look that clearly communicated how much of a bollocking she intended to give him later. "Right, so option A is that the papers we received today are correct, and money came in that Mr Celeste should have been aware of, but wasn't, and we go down the route of mitigating factors. Option B is that the papers are correct, but two books are being kept, of which Mr Celeste only had access to one. At which point, Mr Celeste's brother, Michael, has his head on the chopping block. Option C is that the papers are wrong and someone, somewhere, created or manipulated these documents to implicate Mr Celeste and his brother. But we can't tell which one it is until we've looked through the financial papers again."

Adam nodded quietly. "I'm sorry Mr Celeste, until this came through we thought we'd resolved this whole money laundering issue."

"It's not your fault, dear boy," Aziraphale said, with a smile like a cracked egg, "I'm very grateful for the care and attention you've both given this matter."

"The good news is that we think there could be a number of mitigating factors if option A, our worst option, is the case," said Beelzebub, clearly desperate to move the meeting on. "Now this is the bit where we get to what Adam has had a chance to prepare."

Adam took the hint, and opened up the binder which he hadn't hidden cookies in. "Okay, so looking into this, we have two main forms of defence; administrative, and protected characteristics--"

"--if they followed proper procedure, and if they fired you because you're gay." Crowley translated. Beelzebub coughed meaningfully. "Sorry, Beelzebub. Adam, please go ahead."

"Thank you," Adam said, not missing a beat, "And, well, we use both of them." 

"And outflank them twice over, like Hannibal at the Battle of Cannae," said Aziraphale with a smile.

"Right, yes, that." Adam's face betrayed a slight tic of annoyance, "So, on the administrative side, we argue that the grants they say went against the ethos of the Foundation, weren't, and that firing you over that was a massive overreaction which should have been dealt with less severely, with opportunity to change. The fact it's a family business means there's some precedent against us, but the fact it's mediation means that we don't need to be quite as strict with--"

Beelzebub slammed her hand down on the table. "ADAM."

Adam rolled his eyes. "Okay, we still need to be strict with points of law, but we have more room for alternative methods of resolution."

"Thank you." Beelzebub gave Adam a look, which made it clear that he was in trouble. 

"With the protected characteristics… I'm going to have to get a statement from you about how they treated you. Whether they knew your orientation before you were employed in this role, and if they made the place a hostile environment. Also, I'd like to interview Greta again, as the statement Crowley got wasn't as complete as I'd like, no offence meant, Crowley."

"None taken," said Crowley.

"Also, if you can get in contact with any other staff members and ask them to give a statement, that would bolster the case."

"I'll... I'll see what I can do." Aziraphale said, eyes not leaving the table. 

"We can get started on a statement after this meeting." Adam looked excited.

Aziraphale stared at the table as he stuttered, "A-a-a-dam, i-i-i-i…"

"We can get everything done by the end of the week, and I can draft something up by the end of next…"

"Adam, no," Aziraphale said quietly. He looked up and said, "I'm afraid that all of this has made me feel quite... overwhelmed. I think that before I do anything else I need to collect my thoughts. Can I...come back tomorrow? I'm sorry to delay things but I'm really not ready today--"

"--Mr Celeste, we can get everything moving--" Adam tried to explain.

Beelzebub had clearly had enough. She banged her fist on the table and growled, "Adam, for the love of hell, please stop it!" Then, turning to Aziraphale with an expression of sweetness and light, said, "Yes, Mr Celeste, you can come back tomorrow. It'll give Adam more time to look over those papers."

Adam sat back in his seat, not willing to argue with her. 

"W...would you be able to send through a summary of what we've discussed? Aziraphale asked, "I understand that there are still variables and so on, but…"

"Adam can do that," Beelzebub answered on his behalf. "He can also arrange for the statement to be taken at the same time."

Adam nodded defeatedly, and packed his things up. 

“I’ll see you in a few minutes,” Beelzebub said, as Adam closed the door. 

They sat in silence for a moment, before Crowley said, "If we're all done here, I'm going to take Angel home."

"Not just yet.” Beelzebub held out her hand. “Just a quick bit of business.” Crowley sat back down. 

“So, first of all, congratulations Mr Celeste, on your engagement. Crowley might be an irascible viper in an expensive suit, but it’s good to see him happy.”

“Thank you,” Said Aziraphale, warming slightly. 

“--hey--” Crowley tried to interject, but was ignored by Beelzebub.

“Now, I don’t know if he brought this up, but optics-wise, it’ll be best not to marry him until this is all settled.”   
  
“Oh.” Aziraphale looked like he’d just been punched, but was trying not to let it show. “Right.”

“We want to show you as a level headed, sensible man who has been unfairly maligned by his family due to his orientation. Marrying your boyfriend of a few months won’t help. Makes you look impulsive. And if they can argue that he’s out for money, well, it makes you look... naive.”

“Yes.” Aziraphale looked like someone doing an impression of listening.

“Now, wait,” Crowley’s eyes flashed behind his sunglasses, “I have no reason to go after money. You’ve seen what I bring in. Solvent doesn’t even cover it. I have a flat in Mayfair, for Satan’s sake!”

“Do you even have any idea what kind of money and assets are in your boyfriend’s trust? He makes  Croesus look like a kid with a piggy bank!”

“Yes, but…”

“But nothing. Wait.” Beelzebub gave him one of her stares that put the fear of hell in him. After leaving enough of a pause to make her point, she said, “Now, I don’t want to scare you, but I do have the bring up the possibility of prison in relation to this potential money laundering; the maximum sentence is fourteen years, and you’ll hear that number being bandied about, but realistically the most I think you’d get is a couple of years. And even then it’d probably be a suspended sentence.”

“Two years?”Aziraphale gasped.

“It’d just be a suspended sentence,” Beelzebub said, sounding desperate, “a bit of a curfew, a bit of community service, annoying but not the end of the world!”

“But I could go to prison!”

“You wouldn’t. Trust me. Mitigating factors. Loads of mitigating factors! Mitigating factors up the wazoo!"

"But it's possible…"

"Yes...no...no! Crowley! Help me here!"

"Angel, calm down... she's right. Probably just a suspended sentence, if, if, it turns out to be true. And it probably won't."

"You don't know it won't"

"No one can ever say for certain, but in all likelihood, it won't. It's only just enough money to make it to Crown Court, and you're clearly not a hardened criminal. The courts won't want to make an example of you. Charity worker, money held but not successfully laundered, a relatively small amount, much better to fine you and make you do some community service. They just have the maximum sentence for people who either really flout the law, or proper criminals they can only get on money laundering."

Aziraphale did not look comforted. "Even so...I could end up in prison."

"In an outside case. I promise it'd be in an outside case. But I do have to be responsible and tell you it's a possibility."

"I… understand," said Aziraphale, with an expression of incomprehension. He ran his fingers across the envelope embossed with wings, as if trying to read it for answers. 

"And we’re still trying to work out how this all fits into the finances of the Foundation. Before knowing that, we don’t actually know if this is a money laundering issue. It could be a rounding error for all we know right now.”

“I...understand…”

Crowley crossed his hand over Aziraphale’s, and with a glare of his own said, “I think we’re done here.”

"I think we are." Beelzebub nodded in agreement. "Thank you for coming in today, Mr Celeste.”

" ‘Pleasure” he smiled. They shook hands, and Crowley quickly guided them out to the Bentley.

As soon as the door shut behind him, Aziraphale crumpled in the passenger seat. “It’s all suddenly...” he waved his hands, trying to find a way to show what he meant. 

Crowley gripped the steering wheel, hiding his concern behind his glasses. "It is...isn't it."

"... Very real," Aziraphale whispered, choking on the words. He slumped further down in the seat, eyes glazing over.

They sat quietly for a moment, trying to ignore the enormity of everything. Crowley drummed the wheel nervously. 

Aziraphale took a deep breath, hands floating from his sides to his chest. "It's...a lot…"

Crowley looked at the ring on his finger, then back to Aziraphale. "We'll get through it."

Aziraphale seemed to fold in on himself. “What...what if we don’t?”

“What do you mean?” Crowley asked, despite knowing the answer.

"What...what if I lose everything? What if this turns out to be all my fault and…and I end up...in jail."

"That won't happen," Crowley said quickly, so he couldn't allow himself to think, "It just won't."

"But what if it does?"

"Then I'll come visit you. I'll see you every month, and I'll marry you the minute you're out."

"What about your career, marrying a criminal?" 

"Then I'll stop being the common one in this relationship," Crowley joked. Aziraphale didn't laugh. "It won't happen," Crowley repeated, “Most of the time it ends up with fines, and, frankly, you’ve got so many mitigating factors that prison time would be unlikely. We...just need to figure out where this money came from, and where it went.”

Aziraphale sighed, and his hands flopped into his lap. Looking into the distance, he said, "It’s hard not to feel tainted by all this.” Aziraphale’s eyes were glossy with tears. “It’s hard not to feel like I’m tainting you.”

Crowley had no idea what to say.  _ No, you’re not, _ didn’t seem right. Neither did, _ please, I love you.  _

Crowley placed his hands on the wheel again. “C’mon Angel. We can go anywhere. Anywhere you want to go.”

Aziraphale drew in breath sharply, looking away from Crowley. “No thank you. Please don’t look so disappointed.” he pulled a crumpled tartan handkerchief out of his pocket, and dabbed it against his eyes as surreptitiously as he could. "Perhaps one day we could . . . I don’t know . . . Have a picnic. Or dine at the Ritz."

Crowley reached for his hand, noticing how cold it was. “I’d love to take you to The Ritz. One day.”

“Thank you, Crowley,” Aziraphale whispered.

  
  


**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Thank you for reading! Please throw a comment to your humble fic writer if you can. If not, we cool.
> 
> ATM I'm averaging about a chapter every two weeks. Or trying to. Time is so, so, bizarre right now.
> 
> I'm also over at https://www.tumblr.com/blog/bouncygin, so come and say hi! I mostly re-blog, but I will experiment with real posts soon

**Author's Note:**

> Hi! Please let me know what you think! I'm enjoying writing this, but not entirely sure if this idea has legs/appeals to anyone other than me. 
> 
> Next chapter is dinner, so, erm...should be very fun. I'm having a lot of fun plotting it out.


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